tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40893737111108951662024-03-05T13:23:28.765+00:00FLEXIBLOG!Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-51621012431678474372015-07-14T13:28:00.000+01:002015-07-15T12:27:36.731+01:00<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May 1980</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Watch With Mothersbraugh</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Devo are wearing Bill and Ben flowerpots on their heads when I meet up with them on a movie set at Universal Studios in Hollywood. I don’t like to say anything -- the daft todgers might take offence and boot me in the flubberglub.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It’s perfectly obvious to them what those pillar-box red plastic hats signify. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Winkies! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Or, to be more precise, Aztec Winkies! Hats, it seems, are merely penile projectiles in the Devo dictionary of daffy definitions. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘They are the sign of a man’s sexuality. They represent the energy of the organ,’ says Gerry Casale, without the slightest hint of a smirk. Brings a whole new meaning to giving head. And, like all Devo concepts, the hat-wearing has a dualistic connotation, or the Tweedledum and Tweedledee syndrome. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘They are festive hats,’ continues Gerry. ‘We wear them to create a party atmosphere. We want to be the life and soul of the party, like the guy who gets drunk and sticks a lampshade on his head to get a laugh.’ </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mark Mothersbraugh gives one of his customary tag lines that always seem to crystallise a particular facet of Devo psychology in one searing, succinct sentence. ‘David Bowie used to wear a plastic hat too . . .’ </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’m being treated to my own personal preview of their new show − the final one before they embark on a world tour to promote their new album, Freedom of Choice. It’s remarkable. The speakers double up as the light show to produce some stunning monochrome effects and the encore, a medley of songs from Stevie Wonder’s The Secret Life of Plants using the flowerpots to maximum advantage, has to be seen to be believed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">After they finish, the band wander up and down Sunset Strip wearing grey vinyl suits. It’s so hot you can actually hear their feet squelching in their pillar-box red shoes. And naturally they wear those hats. They’re posing for a photo session and attract the attention of T-shirted LA types noticeable by their dumb expressions and limited stoned-clad vocabulary. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘Hi. Hey. Wha’ . . .? Hey. Hi. Devo, huh? Shit. Hi. Hey. Mind if I, er . . . Yeah? No kiddin’. Hey. Hi . . .’ </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The articulate Devo, gleaming metallic sex pistons of techno-brash, provide a sharp contrast to this ring of mediocrity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What lurks behind the clinical, boiler-suited exterior? Do their hearts pump blood or BP? Are they just a bunch of Dunlops rushing in where angels fear to tread, or are they the harbingers of a duty free Tomorrow’s World? Devo are an exquisite enigma. Or is it enema? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Whatever, they have confused and confounded the British press who seem incapable of accepting them on any serious level. And nobody could believe it when these strange, fragile-looking beings appeared not to see the joke. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Oh, sure they would, as they do now, sit with you and mock a quasi-intellectual article rejoicing at their ‘reductive synthesis’, but if you went away and wrote a piece with tongue firmly in cheek, they seemed to get hurt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘We answered questions in earnest,’ says Gerry, sipping a glass of Californian champagne. It’s now midnight. We’re in a downtown bar and they’re still wearing fucking flowerpots on their heads. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘The British seem to lack a sense of humour about it all. We were just stirring things up for fun. Devo are just playing with reality. In the end, everyone resorts to religion, right-wing politics and disco. Devo are observers of the human condition. But the joke is, we’re part of that condition too.’ </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What does Devo-lution mean, Gerry? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘Stripping away the shit. When Bob Seger writes, “I like to watch her strut”, you tell him that’s a fucking joke. You tell him that’s a fucking stupid line. That’s my freedom of choice. Don’t expect me to wear gypsy leather trousers and go out and sing, “I like to watch her fucking strut”. I’m confident that there’s a whole segment of society that doesn’t want to hear about girls strutting or pulling triggers on devils’ guns. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘Devo’s programme is the alternative to sock-in-the-crotch rock. Our sexuality is more like Henry Ford and the assembly line. We are sexual in a powerfully clean, technological way. Devo is the cleansing agent for all the awful records out there. Devo presents you with a pure and healthy sex. I’ve never been able to understand why a woman wants a man with a great big hairy belly. They must have a perverted and demented view of sex. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">‘A lot of people represent the medieval kind of sex, like Rod Stewart, while we represent the new sex. Girls in Spandex pants are turned off by Devo because they are into medieval sexuality. After the A-bomb and A-rseholes, Devo will emerge as heads of the post sexual revolution.’ </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And now we must go because the man from the house is walking down the garden path and will be here any moment. Hurry, he’s about to open the door of the greenhouse. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">W-e-e-e-e-e-e-d!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2015</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Check out the new Flexipop! Book - <a href="http://www.flexipop.com/bookhome">www.flexipop.com/bookhome</a></b></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-81083535742810553282015-07-02T15:05:00.001+01:002015-07-02T15:05:19.651+01:00<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">December 1979<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Damn the torpedo… </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Old soldiers never die. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Take Alex Harvey who’s once again on the glory trail after a year in the wilderness. His new album released this week, The Mafia Stole My Guitar, shows that, despite all the health rumours, Alex is fighting fit. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">‘I can run half a mile and swim half a mile right afterwards,’ Alex tells me at his north London home where he lives with his wife and two children. ‘I know some people think I’m a bit of a nutcase but, let’s face it, the oldest cliché in the book is you have to be a nutcase to play rock ’n’ roll. And that’s the only life I know.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Alex was plagued with problems after his manager, Bill Fehilly, was killed in a plane crash three years ago. First the Sensational Alex Harvey Band split, then Alex became involved in a series of legal battles that still continue and which have made him a very angry man. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">‘I’m 45 and I’ve been through an awful lot. Can you imagine how bad it was for me when Bill was killed? But you know something − I’m winning. I loved the band, loved ‘em − but I mustn’t get over-emotional. It’s finished. ‘When I started in this business I knew a lot of kids. Now they’re all dead. I’m the only one left. I’m unique.’ (Alas, Alex ain’t so unique any more. He died of a heart attack a couple of years after that interview while on the road. So much for running and swimming). </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>From Flexipop! 1980</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The Damned have gone off the radar, love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">‘New Rose’ is now as dry as a bone, ‘Neat Neat Neat’ has lost its lovin’ feeling, Brian James is living on Dead End Street and even love couldn’t keep Captain and Tennille together. But Rat Scabies’s knob is a sign that the best is yet to come.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It was when he pulled it out in front of a bunch of open-mouthed studio technicians during a session for Capital Radio that I realised just how much I’d missed the Damned. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Noticing its lack of petrification, I remembered how flexible the band were − eccentric one minute, devout rockers the next. Its jaundiced appearance reminded me of how colourful they were; the presence of varicose veins was redolent of their energy; the lack of any noticeable discharge their discipline (for, despite views to the contrary, the Damned never indulged in more than a controlled chaos); the odour their strength. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yes, the Damned were, and are, unique. Forget what critics would have you believe: Messrs Scabies, Sensible, Vanian and new boy ex-Saint Alisdair Ward, are back in business with the release of their new album Machine Gun Etiquette. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The Damned always did defy the rules, not because of an adopted pose but because the individuals themselves defied description. If any band deserved the appendage ‘punk’, it’s this collection of crazy pavings. Other bands who hiccuped during the winter of ’76 only got so far before drinking water from the wrong side of a glass and regaining their equilibrium. The Damned had no equilibrium. They didn’t hiccup, they BURPED. A thick, rheumy, brown ale of a burp that rejoiced in its own noise. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It was tragic to see them go. It’s glorious to see them return. The sight of Captain Sensible sitting alone in the Capital Radio studio playing lead guitar would have been little short of miraculous two years ago. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">One thing the Damned never got was praise for their musical capabilities. ‘You look around at other people,’ says Sensible, ‘and then you think, Who’s better than the Captain? Nobody.’ </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Dave Vanian cups his black-gloved hands around a glass of Scotch and Coke. ‘We’re so much better than we ever were. We actually talk to each other now. I never knew we would get back together again. But I’m very glad we did. We haven’t got the limitations we had before when we were stuck in one little hole. Even though the reviews haven’t been that favourable for the new album, I</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">know we’ve shocked people into realising that we can play. I wouldn’t change a thing.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s at this point that Rat brings forth the spider from the fly. ‘I’ve written eight songs this week,’ he says, accompanied by the sound of Sensible’s guitar and the crackle of a downward-moving zip. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ex-Saint Alisdair, recovering from laughing at the sight for sore eyes, sits next to me. What did you do when the Saints split? ‘Got drunk on all the money.’ So that’s two pints and a Scotch. ‘Now I’m in a band I like. I really am.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Shit,’ interrupts Rat. ‘He won’t even talk to us. He costs us a fortune in extra hotel rooms cos he refuses to sleep in the same room as the rest of us.’ More laughter. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Nah, this is a band I can talk to,’ says Alisdair. ‘We all speak the same language, have the same sense of humour. The Damned is more like a religion among its fans. And there ain’t much humour around these days.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Alisdair is convinced music goes in seven-year cycles. ‘We’ve got another four years to go before something new comes along.’ So, who’d have thought it? The Damned, the first punks to make a single ‘New Rose’, the first punks to make an album, The Damned, the first punks to tour the States, the first punks to split, the first punks to re-form. And maybe the last punks. Ever. But the burning question remains: would you let your daughter marry one of them? And will plonkers be next year’s big thing? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Er, you can put it away now, Rat. ‘It’s nice out today, ennit?’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A few days later, Rat sips tea in a North London caff − and I do mean caff. The sandwiches have as many cracks as the cups. He looks healthy, which is amazing, considering his lifestyle. Rat probably instigated the Demise of the Damned Mark One, which followed the release of their second album Music For Pleasure. Why?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘I got bored with it all. Oh, sure, it was great being a pop star at first − but it ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. It got to the stage where I just couldn’t go out in public. In fact, it got so violent I wasn’t even able to go down my local boozer. I took a bird down the Hope and Anchor one night and she got glassed in the face by someone who had a grudge against me. And I got beaten up twice through no fault of my own. But I was drunk both times so maybe it was my fault. I can’t remember now. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘The songs were rotten, too. Brian James, who’d written most of them, had achieved his aim and, in my mind anyway, dried up. I reckon we’d all got as far as we could musically. After all, you can only take a nurse’s uniform so far. And our reputations were getting out of hand. I was being accused of the most ridiculous things.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So Rat vamoosed. ‘I needed to get completely away from the rock world. I thought I was gonna have a nervous breakdown. My whole personal-defence mechanism decided it was time for me to call it a day.’ For Rat to pack it in is rather like Hartlepool winning the Cup − it just ain’t gonna happen. So he formed Whitecats. Flop. Meanwhile, across the teeming metropolis, Captain Sensible formed King. Flop. The two flops joined forces. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘Captain wanted to work with me again. So we had a walk round the block and decided to do a tour. The only problem was, who could we get as a singer? We looked around, then finally came to the conclusion that the best we were ever likely to get was Dave Vanian.’ Vanian had left the Doctors of Madness and spent his days reading the grotesque in his Islington house with the black walls and blacker ceilings, and remembering yesterday. He was ripe for a reunion. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘My attitude has changed now,’ says Rat. ‘You get used to people staring at you. You stay in places where you’re known.’ On their last US tour Rat banged nineteen girls in twenty-two days. ‘That’s my record. The only nights I missed out were when we arrived − I had jetlag − </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">and when we had to drive to a gig. If I wasn’t in the Damned I wouldn’t pull nearly as much.’ </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">An honest man is Rat…</span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">From Flexipop! 1982</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Check out the new Flexipop! Book that features the Damned starring in Saturday Night Weaver! <a href="http://www.flexipop.com/bookhome">www.flexipop.com/bookhome</a></span><br />
<h4>
copyright Barry Cain 2015</h4>
Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-31320351166960633212015-01-24T16:36:00.004+00:002015-01-24T20:29:31.070+00:00<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><strong></strong></span></span><br />
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October 1979</h4>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Paul & Andy </span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">The sunshine boys</span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial;"></span></span></b></span></span></h2>
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</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Paul Weller appears to grow more cynical by the hour. </span></span><br />
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<br />
He hits me with his rhythm stick every time I meet him. After a show in Brighton we chat half the night away in his hotel room. The interview appears in the </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Evening News, </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">which is a real coup because Paul refuses to talk to the ‘big’ papers, believing them to be the unacceptable face of capitalism. I’ve also interviewed him for the </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Daily Star </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">and </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Daily Record. </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">None of the national journos get to know these bands the way music-paper writers do. We’ve been on the road with these guys, got pissed with these guys, snorted drugs with (some) of these guys. The early bird catches the worms, which, incidentally, my hair has been free of since that fateful haircut late December back in ’67 (oh, what a night!). So . . . </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Welcome to the two-tone zone. <br />
<br />
The Jam. Two-tone mohair suits, two-tone shoes, two-tone harmonies, two-tone attitude. <br />
<br />
Their sound is icky-sticky, neat and tricky. A growing legion of fans has pushed their latest album, <em>Setting Sons<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span></em><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">, straight into the charts at number seven. The sound is fun, young and even charming, but the lyrics are dark, set in that adolescent void hogged by Jam fans − alienated teenage demi-mondes with no prospect even of a dead-end job. No employment means relentless TV and a dangerously disproportionate amount of self-analysis. Kings of nothing. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">But that two-tone approach has finally brought the band the kind of stardom that has eluded them since the beginning when they trod the same London pub boards as the Sex Pistols and the Clash back in 1976. Their single, ‘Eton Rifles’, is currently number three and this Sunday they start a sell-out three-night stint at the Rainbow. </span></span><br />
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Other bands from that era have since fallen by the wayside, deluded by malignant self-importance and dogged by misfortune. But the Jam, especially guitarist Paul Weller, refuse to inflict their egos on the pop public and quietly continue making a stream of classic singles. <br />
<br />
‘I suppose I’ve been cynical since I was fourteen years old,’ says Paul, ‘since my teachers kept telling me what I should know when they knew absolutely nothing themselves. All they were good at was tripping out on acid. I could tell them more than they could tell me.’ <br />
<br />
It’s been four hours since the end of the show and he’s been drinking solidly ever since. Paul has always maintained that his shoulder is a chip-free zone. But that’s incongruous. Chips are necessary to any rock artist who’s worth his salt and my guess is there’s a whole plateful up there with the odd piece of skate thrown in. <br />
<br />
‘I love the English language but when I wanted to read contemporary books at school they insisted on stuffing Dickens down my throat,’ he says. ‘Same with music. All they played was Beethoven and Tchaikovsky when they should have started from Elvis. Christ, I couldn’t even fill in a tax form when I left school. I had to educate myself. I haven’t got any special perception. Many of the letters I receive articulate my sentiments better than I do. It’s just that when I was thirteen I first saw the Pistols and they blocked my brain. At last, I thought, the whole youth culture has arrived. Before that the only bands I’d seen were Status Quo and Wings. You could never be them − but you could be a Sex Pistol.’ <br />
<br />
Older stars, like Bob Geldof of the Boomtown Rats, infuriate Paul when they start spouting about the young generation. ‘People like that, setting themselves up as spokesmen for the kids, make me spew. <br />
<br />
The young are the strength, the future of this country. I’m still young, I’ve got time on my side − what have they got?’ <br />
<br />
So how will he avoid falling into the same trap when he’s twenty-seven? <br />
<br />
‘I’ll know when I’ve got nothing left to say. Then I won’t write things down any more -- I’ll lose my bottle.’ <br />
<br />
Surprisingly, Paul remains optimistic about the immediate future of music in Britain. Whereas contemporary observers are confidently predicting the end of the rock epoch, Paul firmly believes that the scene now is better that it was in 1976. ‘There are so many great bands around that I can only foresee it getting better. Groups like the Skids, the Ruts and the Undertones point the way − barring outside interference.’ <br />
<br />
Outside interference? From whom? <br />
<br />
‘The Government. I know this will sound really stupid in print, but I wanted to send a copy of our new album to all the heads of state, just to try and make them aware of how the young feel about certain things. But I never did. I didn’t think any of them would bother to listen.’ <br />
<br />
Paul and his ilk are in touch with their followers because they have largely un-affected lifestyles. He lives with his girlfriend Jill in a London flat. <br />
<br />
‘What else can you do but watch TV or go out for a drink? I do exactly the same as any other guy my age. Oh, sure, some people think you’re different, but that’s because they want to. Our fans know we’re just three ordinary geezers.’ <br />
<br />
The following morning the band poses for some photos on the beach and I dash back to London for an appointment with Andy Williams. From Genesis to Revelation.
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<br />
‘Andy,’ says the PR girl to the honey-voiced entertainer in his London Hilton Hotel suite, ‘this is Barry who writes mainly about punk.’ <br />
<br />
‘Oh, really?’ he says, as we shake hands. ‘What -- like the Ramones and the Clash?’ <br />
<br />
Andy Williams. Shit! Who would’ve thought I’d be getting it on with the moonriver man himself (verbally speaking)? This guy is so laid-back he makes a sloth look like a cheetah. He caught the wind a long time ago, boxed it up and sent it second class to Saturn. <br />
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He lives in a breeze-free world that only money can buy. <br />
<br />
Still, he’s definitely top of the pops as far as his three children are concerned. Noelle, sixteen, Christian, fourteen, and ten-year-old Robert all call their dad Poppa. And he loves it. ‘Their mother, Claudine, always called her father Poppa, like most French kids, and the three picked it up,’ says Andy, between puffs of a giant cigar. ‘I hope they never stop calling me it.’ <br />
<br />
You’re it. <br />
<br />
Andy is preparing for his first British tour in three years. It coincides with the release of his new album, The Classic Collection. Dressed casually in pale blue polo-neck sweater and jeans, he paces the room as he talks of his divorce from Claudine. ‘The kids reacted to it very well, but then it wasn’t such a bad divorce. Claudine and I were separated for several years before the final split so they were used to it. But we have remained close friends and see each other a great deal.’ <br />
<br />
After the couple divorced Andy found himself emulating the character in one of his most famous records, ‘Solitaire’. ‘I was very lonely, not for a woman but for a family because, more than anything, <br />
<br />
I’m a family man,’ and pretty home-loving too, I hear. ‘I missed the children and Claudine. But there was never any doubt that they would live with their mother.’ <br />
<br />
Then Andy met a beautiful young actress called Laurie Wright. ‘When I met her she was feeling very down because coincidentally, her parents had just divorced. ‘I invited her as my guest to Las Vegas where I was appearing in cabaret. It was all above board. She slept in a spare bedroom in my suite. In fact, Laurie was a house guest for six months before we started getting involved.’ <br />
<br />
Would he consider marriage again? <br />
<br />
‘Not at the moment. She has her own career and her home in Beverly Hills. But I do like her to come on the road with me.’ Not many. <br />
<br />
During the tour Andy will be consuming large quantities of champagne and beer. ‘It helps me unwind after a show. But I never take drugs. Just give me a few good friends, a decent meal, some fine champagne and I’m happy.’ <br />
<br />
When Andy returns to America he’ll go straight to Aspen where he’s just bought a ski lodge, and where Claudine and the children live. He’ll holiday there before heading for his new home in South Carolina. Then he’ll start work on his first Broadway show − in which he plays a Catholic priest. ‘I’ll have to grow a beard and dye my hair blond for the role. I’m excited about the whole thing.’ <br />
<br />
Andy, who’s sold more than thirty-five million records during his career, hopes his new single ‘Jason’ will be successful − for personal reasons. ‘I wanted something that tied in with the Year of the Child, and then a woman sent this song about a mentally retarded boy. When I sing it I think of my son Robert. He’s not retarded but he does suffer from dyslexia. It would be great if ‘Jason’ turned out to be a hit for me. It’s funny, the whole world is changing these days.’ He stares out of the window, still talking. <br />
<br />
‘Things you read in the papers about some rock star’s sexual secrets wouldn’t have got in a few years back. Although I’m against censorship of any kind, the only thing that bothers me is that just because some star like David Bowie says something young kids might be influenced by it. I wouldn’t like to think that my kids were unduly influenced and that they could stand by their own ideals. <br />
<br />
‘Look, I’m not against homosexuality. I think my children can take care of themselves in life and if one of them came to me and said he was homosexual I’m not going to beat him up. Life is over for me now. By that I mean I’m very content in doing what I’m doing. I have no more worries.’ <br />
<br />
(No worries<em>. <span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span></em><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">He did marry again, not to Laurie but to Debbie Meyer in 1991. He died of bladder cancer in 2012 aged 84, so he’s not almost there anymore. His birthplace in Iowa is a tourist attraction.) </span></span><br />
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</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2014 <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives </span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wet-Dreams-Lives-Barry-Cain-ebook/dp/B00H0IM2CY">www.amazon.co.uk/Wet-Dreams-Lives-Barry-Cain-ebook/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span></span><br />
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<br />Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-74794309936812249202014-12-19T17:33:00.002+00:002014-12-19T17:40:48.925+00:00<h3>
September 1979 </h3>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span>Let's Groove </span><br /></b><br /></span><b></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">It’s late -- it always is in LA. No one’s ever on time. <br />
<br />
I’ve been waiting patiently for an audience with Mr Earth Wind & Fire, Maurice White, for eight days. He’s as elusive as a Pimpernel but I finally nail him at a West Hollywood recording studio where he’s putting the finishing touches to the Emotions’ new album. <br />
<br />
‘Maurice will be down in a while,’ says the studio caretaker. ‘Take a chair, sir.’ I sit. Sit. Sit. <br />
<br />
‘Why don’t you go upstairs and shoot some pool, sir?’ <br />
<br />
I go upstairs and shoot some pool. And some more pool. Three hours later Maurice appears. It’s three a.m. and he tells me he’s been ‘Dancing since noon.’ Seems he’d also been rehearsing with EW&F for their forthcoming US tour before coming to the studio around seven. ‘I’m probably one of the busiest people in the world. I can go on non-stop for weeks at a time. If I’m not in the studio I’m writing or preparing for another tour. <br />
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‘Having a lot of energy is like having a lot of ideas − you have to take it and channel it and make it into something. Even when I’m not doing anything I sit around looking at myself. That’s a habit I got into when I was a kid. I’d sit in the corner watching myself outside of me. When you do something like I do, having that ability is a bonus.’ <br />
<br />
Maurice’s pyramid of harmony rises out of a disco desert. He’s built it stone by stone through eight albums stretching back to 1972. <br />
<br />
‘Each new album, each new song contributes to the whole. I’ve always been a loner, ever since I was a kid. I came from a big family − five boys and four girls – and only occasionally did I have the luxury of being by myself. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">'I can speak of my experiences through my music. I try and reach the inner soul through song, through that secluded part where you talk to yourself about your decisions and how you should make your way through life. Do you understand?’ <br /><br />Sure ’nuff. <br />
<br />
‘We are speaking of a certain type of lifestyle and it’s important the kids know what we mean − that’s why we always print the lyrics on our albums. We are now in the pop market and the record buyers don’t know where we’re coming from. They haven’t yet lived the things we speak of. I guess I mean mostly the kids from the suburbs. We are talking of things relative to the street, relative to survival, where people wait for a new day. Those kids haven’t ever got up in the morning and wondered if they’re going to get through the day okay. My personal past has enabled me to speak of those things.’ <br />
<br />
The title of the new album was a deliberate attempt to eradicate the diffidence in most (nah, all) of us. <br />
<br />
‘We wanted to awaken the self in everybody. You go into the record store and ask for I Am and that’s a reaffirmation of you just by saying those two words. In the US people have certain conceptions about black groups. They think black music must be of a particular type and when boundaries are broken it’s as though you did something terrible. Every time we release an album Rolling Stone magazine slams it. Yet every album is successful. I live in fear of them giving one of our records a good review. Then I’ll know we’ve failed.’ <br />
<br />
Are you a pain-in-the-arse perfectionist? <br />
<br />
‘Yes. That’s one of my problems. I often wish I was a lot sloppier. There are annoying little things. For instance, if my closet isn’t completely tidy I go to pieces. To have an orderly closet saves time for me. I’ll take out the wrong pair of pants and have to go back and change them.’ <br />
<br />
But doesn’t such an attitude spill over into relationships? Perfectionists are notoriously intolerant of others. <br />
<br />
‘I’ve learned toleration because I had to be tolerated. Growing up in my parents’ home, first in Memphis and then in Chicago, taught me that.’ <br />
<br />
Maurice is divorced. ‘I never had any kids. I really don’t know why I got married. I had a good home. None of my brothers and sisters are married. But we’ve all got time. I’m thirty-five now. I figure I’ve got another thirty-five years left. I still got time for all that family stuff.’ <br />
<br />
We leave the studio together, and in the car park opposite he climbs into the coolest Porsche imaginable. <br />
<br />
(Apart from a four-year hiatus between 1983 and 1987, EW&F have continued to record top-notch albums and have passed into the mainstream American mindset. Maurice has worked with the likes of Streisand, Neil Diamond and Cher and the band were inducted into the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame in 2000. Such is their popularity, EW&F have performed at the 2002 Winter Olympics, the Superbowl in 2005 and the US Open golf tournament in 2008. In February 2009, they played at the White House during President Obama’s first formal dinner. Now, Then & Forever, the group's first album in eight years, was released September 10, 2013 They are, quite simply, an American institution. Oh, and Maurice has a son.) <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2014 <br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY <br />
<br />
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY </span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-54686388194380106472014-12-04T16:25:00.001+00:002014-12-04T16:38:57.889+00:00<strong><span style="font-size: large;">September 1979 <br />
</span><br />
</strong><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 48pt; line-height: 150%;"><strong>On
the beach</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">It’s my first trip to Los Angeles and I wander round the record companies in the hot sunshine wearing a Journey T-shirt -- cool design but know nothing of the band and never will. I set up a few things. I’m hot to trot. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">I stay for two and a half weeks downgrading the paid-for hotels as the interviews start to dwindle, finally ending up on the sofa in the front room of a beachside apartment belonging to ex-Fleet Street photographer Laurence Cottrell. Unfortunately, I leave the window open to his apartment one morning and all his photographic equipment is stolen. </span></span><br />
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Capitol records fly me out to Las Vegas to spend the night, take in a Glen Campbell show and interview him backstage. Isn’t that a great sentence? <br />
<br />
Then I get a call that turns me into Alice in boogie Wonderland. On a scale of one to ten, how cool is this question? <br />
<br />
‘Can you have lunch with the Beach Boys at a restaurant on Santa Monica beach tomorrow?’ <br />
<br />
‘No, sorry, I’m busy.’ <br />
<br />
‘Oh.’ No fucking sense of humour, these guys. <br />
<br />
‘Only joking. I’d love to have lunch with the Beach Boys tomorrow or the next day or any day over the next fifty years.’ <br />
<br />
‘Oh.’ <br />
<br />
And that’s how I find myself sitting around a table with the Beach Boys in a beach restaurant. Brian Wilson is opposite me. He doesn’t speak much and when I try to strike up a conversation I don’t quite understand what he’s saying, the restaurant’s too noisy and, besides, the blue litmus paper obviously turned red a long time ago and he’s living the dream. <br /><br />
I’m not interviewing the band. This is an off-the-record get-together. Mike Love is sitting next to me (can you believe all this?) and it’s easier to talk to him. After three years of speaker-grinding noise, my drums are snared and, if I’m more than a foot away from a person in a place with a lot of background noise, I sometimes can’t hear a thing. <br />
<br />
So I talk to Mike for a while and he’s a really nice guy and he invites me to see the band perform their new single, ‘Sumahama’, the follow up to Lady Linda, on the first show of the new series of American Bandstand in Hollywood the next day, hosted by the legendary Dick Clarke. </span></span><br />
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The next day, as the sun toasts the empty pavements, we meander through the LA heat haze in Laurence’s Ford Mustang to the TV studios for an appointment with the Beach Boys on America’s favourite show. And when we get there, Carl, Dennis, Mike, Al and Brian say, ‘Hi, Barry,’ and I wish they all could be California girls at that moment because I feel like fucking the lot of them. <br />
<br />
The Beach Boys know my name. Look up the number. It’s like winning an award. <br />
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After the show I shake Dick’s hand (doesn’t sound right) and Mike takes me to one side. ‘I understand you’d like to do an interview, Barry.’ <br />
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There! He says it again. <br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
<br />
‘Well, why don’t you come out and see my home in Santa Barbara? You and I can do the interview and you can spend a little time there.’ <br />
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Yes. <br />
<br />
‘Great. Make it the day after tomorrow, around midday. You can meet the family. Is that good for you?’ <br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
<br />
‘Okay. I’ve got a little map here. It’s easy to find when you know how. Look forward to it.’ <br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
<br />
‘We’ve got to go now. Nice seeing you again, Barry.’ <br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
<br />
‘That’s a result,’ says Laurence. <br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
<br />
Okay, I might seem like a gormless dick to you, but christ, hanging out with a Beach Boy at his house in California? And with his family. <br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
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For a few souped-up, Bermuda-short years, the Beach Boys were America. The birth of surf with all its biologically clean, large-breasted Pepsodent blondes in blue bikinis; its guys sliding out of black Elvis leather and breezing into big shirts and wide smiles; its tanful of exercise and sublime backseat drive-in sex, made everyone want to sing sweet ’n’ high in their flaming hot rods. <br />
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In 1965 California was the place to be. The real deal. They even told you so on The Beverly Hillbillies every Sunday night. The American dream. And the Beach Boys conveyed it all in three-minute pristine pop perfection. They were an enclave in the British charts surrounded by the dockyard rock of a million moptops. After all, the only thing that really bugged them was driving up and down the same old strip while here the kids were ferrying across the Mersey trying desperately to get out of this place. <br />
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They made you want to be a beach boy, to be blond and slim and get sand in my shoes and ride up and down that strip instead of getting a tube to Whitechapel every Saturday night looking for adventure and whatever came my way, though it never did. <br />
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Mike Love stretches out on a lounger three hundred feet above the Pacific Ocean at his Santa Barbara home and not a cotton field in sight . The 38 year-old Beach Boy (one of these days they’re gonna have to change that name − Beach Men or better still Beach Big Boys) looks good as he sips a chocolate malt. <br />
<br />
The demise of the Beach Boys coincided with the demise of America. Both went to pot, pieces and polyurethane. Brian Wilson − in the top three pop-genius category − appeared to crack and spent years in a wilderness inhabited by strange dreams and love letters in the sand. <br />
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But now, says Mike, ‘We intend to be better than we’ve ever been before. Those people that have slagged us in the past are the ultra trendies who have lost sight of the fact that some things are timeless and universal − like your basic Beach Boy. Our music will be played throughout history like Beethoven, Bach and Brahms. We are into the future, we are into the now. Those who call us over the hill don’t realise we are immortal. What they say doesn’t mean shit to a tree.’ <br />
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The chocolate malt gasps in the bottom of the carton as Mike Love sucks hard. He’s telling the truth by the way. At least, that’s what I think as a band of naked revellers frolics in the autumn mist near Mike’s private beach directly below. <br />
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Interviewing a Beach Boy by the ocean is like interviewing a Beatle in The Cavern or Rod Stewart in bed or a Sex Pistol in the toilet. It’s relevant. His home is at a spot he calls Asoleado, Spanish for a place in the sun. Like Page Three. It’s little short of paradise. Like Page Three. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYbC0aQZyvz2cj9XrBQBeLc6DuEpIRSyWHtU-VStwuz8xb3wCOlHWfAwz0VRxJ7xmEdne7W_7-Nq0w5a2ybx6abOP8Cl6cESOX88wOFP6NE8cBwgVtcgLyeO1umKEhERZvNyjd5153OBj/s1600/Beach+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYbC0aQZyvz2cj9XrBQBeLc6DuEpIRSyWHtU-VStwuz8xb3wCOlHWfAwz0VRxJ7xmEdne7W_7-Nq0w5a2ybx6abOP8Cl6cESOX88wOFP6NE8cBwgVtcgLyeO1umKEhERZvNyjd5153OBj/s1600/Beach+7.jpg" /></a>After a series of indifferent albums, the band released L.A. (Light Album) earlier this year. It proved beyond question that the Beach Boys were still getting around, still capable of a little subtle soul seduction, still holding on to those honeydew harmonies with the less fattening centres that melt in your mouth, not in your hand. <br />
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The single ‘Lady Lynda’ promptly scored and ‘Sumahama’, although not exactly a surfin’ safari of a hit, is still there among the Jags and Tourists of this world. <br />
<br />
So why the long gap before making music again? <br />
<br />
‘Just things, y’know.’ He stretches again. ‘Like Carl put on a lot of weight and Dennis started drinking too much and Al had his ranch and horses and Brian went through a highly emotional state in both his mind and body and was smoking way too much. He’s a sensitive, brilliant musician and pressures can sometimes manifest themselves in bad ways in people like that. We were not as cohesive as we might have been for quite some time. But now we’re gonna run the group like a team again. We’ve been living apart for far too long.’ <br /><br />
To get the band back on their feet, Mike has masterminded the ‘Total Fitness Programme’. <br />
<br />
‘We just want to be healthier and fitter than we’ve ever been before. I think it’s the only way we can maintain a close relationship. There’s too much acid in the systems and not enough vitamins. Now we regularly go to a training camp in the mountains by the sea to work out.’ Jogging like bluebirds, no doubt. <br />
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Another project in the bag is a movie, California Beach, which I must admit sounds great. ‘It’s about four girls from various parts of the States who meet out here on the beach. There’s a Midwest farmer’s daughter, an East Coast girl, a southern girl and a northern girl.’ <br />
<br />
Sounds familiar. ‘It’s just a series of sociological vignettes played out here day after day against a backdrop of Beach Boys music. Kind of like an Endless Summer.’ <br />
<br />
To launch the movie, the band intends to hold the world’s biggest beach party next spring and they’ll also undertake a ‘California Beach’ tour. After each show there will be a party, organised by the Playboy Club and oozing with pretty girls. ‘Should keep the press interested,’ smiles Mike. <br />
<br />
So, two shots in the arm. But what of the man himself? The cousin of the Wilson brothers from clean-cut LA., Mike has lived in Asoleado for the last eight years. <br />
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‘Oh, sure, I used to have a place in Beverly Hills and one in Malibu. But I got tired of all that. When I moved here I became involved in transcendental meditation and eventually became a teacher.’ <br />
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Unlike so many other rock stars who prodded meditation with a superficial finger, Mike has remained loyal to his beliefs. To the extent, he assures me, of being able to levitate and disappear! <br />
<br />
‘Too many people in this business dwell on the insubstantial aspects of life − having the right car, going to the right parties, wearing the right clothes. I’ve just been concerned with my life, with its depth and dimension, more than my career in show business.’ <br />
<br />
Mike has his own meditation room in the building complex at Santa Barbara, which also houses his publishing company, Love Songs, and the people in his employ. ‘It’s very difficult to go on tour when you live here. When you look down at the sea through stained-glass windows, when the sunlight breaks through, it’s so tranquil yet so energising. Who needs a hotel room?’ <br />
<br />
But Mike won’t be living in his paradise home for much longer. Asoleado will shortly be transformed into the Love Foundation Holistic Health Centre. ‘It’s costing a million dollars to turn this place into a centre where people can come to get healthy. To diet, exercise, even be examined by a resident MD. A lot of people get interested in health and longevity when they reach a certain age.’ <br />
<br />
Wonder what age that might be. Not thirty-eight, perchance? <br />
<br />
Mike has just bought a two-million-dollar mansion set in twenty acres at Lake Tahoe. He’ll be moving in with his four daughters and one son from three previous marriages, and his Japanese girlfriend, ex-air hostess Sumako. One of his ex-wives lives in a chalet at Asoleado. ‘I’m not gonna get married again for at least two years simply because I’ve got so much to do in terms of my career − the movie, the records, my philanthropic endeavours.’ <br />
<br />
I wonder what his favourite periods in Beach Boys history were. <br />
<br />
‘Mm. The nostalgic ones, like all of a sudden being able to take a plane to Hawaii for a few days and not having to worry about the money. But the current period is the most pleasant of all because we’re more aware of what we’re doing. After all these years my plans and dreams are finally coming true. <br />
<br />
‘There was that bad patch when we decided to rest up awhile but we got back together again through a certain amount of pride and ego and strength and stubbornness, which are part of the characters of all of us and which have enabled us to steer a course through the shaky times and come out on top.’ <br /><br />God only knows what I feel about that. <br />
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</span></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2014 <br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY <br />
<br />
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY </span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-45118195568294789392014-11-24T14:06:00.000+00:002014-11-26T11:31:59.827+00:00<h4>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Matinee Idol</span> <br /><span style="font-size: large;">An Englishman In New York Part 2</span> </h4>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpn1lfK0rHr8MPNAttI2mghmTapCv5dThAYlHsBWvlZeUgBL4_JzCLfaBjNfodPxyrhp4jTX9evuyVAmZd7PLyMjzFRCdTeyeoZYIxzlno4OB3c-MX110cvet3E5bwLp6BzbUz94HUa0w/s1600/Sting+6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpn1lfK0rHr8MPNAttI2mghmTapCv5dThAYlHsBWvlZeUgBL4_JzCLfaBjNfodPxyrhp4jTX9evuyVAmZd7PLyMjzFRCdTeyeoZYIxzlno4OB3c-MX110cvet3E5bwLp6BzbUz94HUa0w/s1600/Sting+6.png" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">pic: Kevin Mazur</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Watching Sting play live on that vast ship in Brooklyn harbour I get to thinking, who are these people? <br />
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People able to harness the dream gene that bucks like a rodeo stallion under all of us until we break our backs from one throw too many and can’t get back in the saddle anymore. <br />
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People who never get thrown, who keep riding baby, baby please… <br />
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People like the man singing just a few feet away from me. Sting tamed his bucking bronco over thirty-five years ago and rode off into the wild blue yonder in search of sunshine and flowers and great ivory towers where all dreams begin and end. <br />
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His days of Tyne and roses are the subject of The Last Ship, the ex-Policeman’s brand new Broadway musical for which he wrote all the music. <br />
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Initially, he didn’t appear in the show – it was left to his old mucker Jimmy Nail to keep the Geordie flag flying in the acting department. But the show opened to mixed reviews, although the music was universally praised, and in an effort to boost flagging ticket sales, Jimmy is bidding auf wiedersehen pet to make way for Sting who replaces him on 9<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">December for a month. Luckily, Sting is one of that rare breed, a pop star who can actually act. Whether he can turn around the show’s fortunes remains to be seen.</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">The Last Ship was also the title of Sting’s 2013 album, his first record in a decade to feature new songs because of a crippling writer’s block. He eventually found inspiration in his north-east roots and the lives of the people who worked in the shipyards that dominated Tyneside. </span></span><br />
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This matinee performance showcasing songs from the album/musical coincided with the tenth anniversary of one of the loveliest, juiciest cruise ships on the planet, the Queen Mary 2. It was a match made in heaven. <br />
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The ship would depart from Brooklyn that afternoon for a transatlantic cruise to Southampton, unfortunately not with me on board. I’m flying back. <br />
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I sit front row centre in the magnificent Royal Court Theatre in between two gorgeous girls, one from the Mail On Sunday and one from the Cunard press office. I’m smiling. Who wouldn’t? <br />
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Plumes of dry ice cover the stage and drift out into the tiny audience. <br />
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I’m in the zone. <br />
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And then Sting walks on – y’know, one of <em>those <span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span></em><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">people, rodeo champ written through him like a stick of Whitley Bay rock – and he sits on a stool in front of a four-piece band and a female backing singer. He’s wearing a red bandanna around his neck that makes him look like a lithe farmer. But he’s still looking good. Damn good</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">He picks up his guitar and starts to sing: </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">'I don’t drink coffee I drink tea my dear…’ </span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">I almost scream like a teenage girl. And I ain’t even a fucking fan! </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWUQ4bY-fBrMRKYd5s9EW5XsUhYeRSm1IA6yuck5J9jTvJWD6ooeERmdxUrCfBFpSnuntrk1kFQVRznpDzqfKiAJjuLURZIPlZ7MEQEg2Mo2Q0gMP5-ni6LfLs0Vt4U7YkB9F9egnwZ0m/s1600/Sting_in_front_of_Cunard's_Queen_Mary_2%2C_NYC.__Photo_credit__James_Morgan_DSC_7179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWUQ4bY-fBrMRKYd5s9EW5XsUhYeRSm1IA6yuck5J9jTvJWD6ooeERmdxUrCfBFpSnuntrk1kFQVRznpDzqfKiAJjuLURZIPlZ7MEQEg2Mo2Q0gMP5-ni6LfLs0Vt4U7YkB9F9egnwZ0m/s1600/Sting_in_front_of_Cunard's_Queen_Mary_2%2C_NYC.__Photo_credit__James_Morgan_DSC_7179.jpg" height="404" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">pic: James Morgan</span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">This Englishman in New York can still wrap an audience around his finger. He wears it well, does Sting. And the band are what we ol’ musos call Kellogg's Bran Flakes – tasty, very, very tasty. <br />
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The rest of the forty minute set consists of songs from The Last Ship; sombre, sentimental slivers of memories brought to life by bittersweet melodies. From the painful poetry of August Winds to the grit of Dead Man’s Boots and The Last Ship – the latter sung in a heavy Geordie accent – this was Sting at his finest for, ooh, at least ten years. And beyond… <br />
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The Last Ship is Sting in the raw. This is his life and, using his song-writing skills, he's damn well going to tell you about it. A bit like Lennon’s first album with less balls, more fiction and oodles of Broadway adaptability. He’s 63 now and the world’s getting a little darker. Maybe he’s shining a light on his childhood to try and make some sense of his fantasy, buck-free adulthood. <br />
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His voice is untouched by time as is his arrogance, the gene genie of any self-respecting megastar. But it’s a cool, unassuming arrogance full of wit and earnestness, a pre-requisite for great song-writing, indeed, any kind of great writing. Because it’s not really arrogance – it’s belief. <br />
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The first time I interviewed Sting, again on the phone, Regatta de Blanc had just been released. He was full of it, still bucking back then and holding on tight. But he knew how to milk the press, say the right things, grab the headlines. It was calculated and lovable and dynamite with a laser beam. <br />
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Like – ‘I get a lot of women chasing after me. But that doesn’t make me any vainer because, as far as vanity goes, I’ve already reached saturation point. I am completely arrogant.’ <br />
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Like – ‘I don’t want to get into a situation where nobody takes you seriously because you’re too good-looking.’ <br />
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Like – ‘We brought reggae to America in the same way that the Stones brought them rhythm and blues. We don’t think we’ve ripped anybody off, we’ve just helped to make it more commercial.’ <br />
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And there’s not a trace of that shredded white reggae in the whole set. The band walk off to a standing ovation. The audience has been swelled by Filipino cabin stewards, Indian chefs, Lithuanian waiters and Brazilian bar staff. They all demand more. <br />
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I wonder if he’ll do an encore. I don’t expect one of course. But imagine if he did. Just imagine if he played that song I first heard with Dina all those years ago. That slice of pop perfection. Wow! Now that would be a memory I could take to my grave before becoming a ghost in the machine. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-NkuJ5lnWVmxB07pKZcAdwpy-8iQEnAFUUx7GwQPRsZ8Y8AijKUAjZObvCWkeGttUzwNrrkAY2tvMH82t_cGiTBrWkJGKl6sCGYl5CpEHxcQ44jmNrwqeT4-dtfJe4BRklXTyNvhn2pj/s1600/sting+7.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-NkuJ5lnWVmxB07pKZcAdwpy-8iQEnAFUUx7GwQPRsZ8Y8AijKUAjZObvCWkeGttUzwNrrkAY2tvMH82t_cGiTBrWkJGKl6sCGYl5CpEHxcQ44jmNrwqeT4-dtfJe4BRklXTyNvhn2pj/s1600/sting+7.png" height="378" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">pic: Kevin Mazur</span><br /><br />Sure enough:</span><br /></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">‘Every breath you take </span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Every move you make'</span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">The magic in the matinee has gone up ten notches. I never thought I’d ever see that song performed live, and within touching distance. I almost scream again. This version is a lot more soulful (euphemism for older?) and I devour every note, every breath. It can’t get any better than this. </span></span><br />
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And it doesn’t. The second encore is, yikes, Message In A Bottle, Police’s first No. 1 single back in 1979 and the opening track on that self-same Regatta de Blanc album. What goes around comes around, in this case the dreaded shredded beat. <br />
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But music disinters memories. The song managed to set me adrift on a memory bliss and I remembered a Japanese girl with a cough and a lump in her breast. Yeah, odd. But then again, 1979 was an odd year, especially if you hung out with The Stranglers. <br />
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I guess ‘Bottle’ is a classic. But give me The Last Ship anytime… <br />
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After each song he spoke of his life. His words were revealing and fascinating and funny and sad and I only wish you could’ve been there. <br />
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Well, surprise, surprise, have I got a treat for you. <br />
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Here are those very same words, courtesy of Pitman’s Shorthand College. But with a twist. <br />
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Sting did a Welcome To The Working Week for Flexipop! but never a Testament Of Youth. I’ve cobbled together the tales he told in the spaces in between. <br />
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So, without further ado, welcome to… <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">STING’S TESTAMENT OF YOUTH (the FLEXIPOP! mix)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDdSsz9nrpLp58uSuCpQzvPLOz5tanbtQO6K29IbHq91ENnmDqW-MqEhl3WI7a1Do2sKcOJRfEOj7oVFevSSXNps-VsxPX_PYWcTo6QIuxbndd4YZ2Pz-X5TKJNDqzboIdOH7eTW0PyI5/s1600/Street_in_Wallsend,_UK,_where_Sting_grew_up,_in_1970s_-_Photo_credit_Pete_Loud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDdSsz9nrpLp58uSuCpQzvPLOz5tanbtQO6K29IbHq91ENnmDqW-MqEhl3WI7a1Do2sKcOJRfEOj7oVFevSSXNps-VsxPX_PYWcTo6QIuxbndd4YZ2Pz-X5TKJNDqzboIdOH7eTW0PyI5/s1600/Street_in_Wallsend,_UK,_where_Sting_grew_up,_in_1970s_-_Photo_credit_Pete_Loud.jpg" height="524" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The street where Sting grew up. Pic: Pete Loud</span><br />
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I was born and raised in the shadow of a shipyard in a little town called Wallsend on Tyneside. Some of my earliest memories are of giant ships blocking out the end of my street and, indeed, blocking out the sun for much of the year. Every morning I’d watch thousands of men walk down the hill to the yards and watch them walk back home every night. <br />
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My grandfather worked in the shipyards – there wasn’t much else in the way of work so I thought, with some trepidation, that I might end up in the shipyard although I had every intention not to. The shipyards were dangerous and noisy and highly toxic and had one of the worst health and safety records in Western Europe at the time. <br />
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There was a saying in our town – Dead Man’s Boots. It meant you could only get a decent job if someone died. <br />
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In my little town you never saw a celebrity except on launch days when a member of the Royal family would be invited. It wasn’t that long ago in England when members of the Royal family were considered to have magical healing powers. Sick children were held up in crowds to try and touch the garment of the King or the Queen to cure them. <br />
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One launch day I was standing in the front of my house holding my Union Jack waiting for the Queen to come and launch a ship. I must’ve been ten years-old. A motorcade appeared at the top of a hill and in the middle was a big, black Rolls Royce moving in a stately pace <br />
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As the car passes my front door there’s the Queen and she smiles, </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">at me</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">. And I wave my flag and she waves back and she keeps her eyes </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">on me. </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">We’re having a moment. The Queen of England has somehow recognised me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">I wasn’t cured of anything, just the opposite. I was infected with an idea that I didn’t really belong in this street, I didn’t want to live in that house, I didn’t want to end up in that shipyard. I wanted to be in that car. I wanted to be something in that big wide world. <br />
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I had a difficult relationship with my dad. He’d been an engineer and he wanted me to do a technical job, to do something he understood, but I had some vague idea that I wanted to study the classics – Latin and Greek and history – and he thought that was all completely useless, and he may be right. ? He wanted me to get a decent job. A father’s love can be misconstrued as control and the dreams of his son can seem like some pie-in-the-sky fantasy. <br />
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When an uncle of mine emigrated to Canada he couldn’t take his guitar with him so he gave it to me. It was a five string, rusty, battered old thing. But I learnt how to play it and it became a friend for life, a co-accomplice in my plot to escape from this surreal industrial landscape I’d been brought up in. <br />
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I left home when I was 15 and never went back. Strangely, I ended up on a cruise ship singing with the resident band. The ship’s purser fired me because my voice was apparently upsetting the lady passengers. <br />
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Make of that what you will. <br />
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I had a dream that I’d be a writer of songs, that I’d sing those songs all over the world, that I’d be paid extravagant amounts of money, that I’d become famous, that I’d marry a beautiful woman, that I’d have children and a big house in the country and grow wine and keep dogs. <br />
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Well, so far so good. I did achieve my dream. I was very fortunate. <br />
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In the last eight years I’d been thinking about that community I was brought up in and feeling the debt to them that I owe – the need to honour the people I lived with and the ships they built. They were enormously proud of those ships and with good reason. <br />
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Some of the largest ships ever built on planet earth were built at the end of my street. Famous Cunard ships like the Mauretania that held the blue ribbon for the fastest crossing of the Atlantic, and the Carpathia, the first ship to be on the scene of the Titanic to pick up the survivors. <br />
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The Titanic, I hasten to add, was built in Belfast and, as they say there, ‘she was fine when she left the yard.’ <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2014 <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
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</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-49998588241191971272014-11-11T16:19:00.004+00:002014-11-26T10:59:27.133+00:00<b><span style="font-size: medium;">October 2014 <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">An Englishman in New York </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Part 1 </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">Sting was always the epitome of cool. <br />
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He was never a punk and The Police were never a punk band, although they dabbled with it at the start of their career. They never embraced that punk ethos like that other trippy trio The Jam, and those Woking class wonderboys weren't punks either. <br />
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I wonder if Paul Weller would play the Royal Court Theatre on board the Queen Mary 2 after bringing out a Broadway show. I suspect that's not his style. <br />
<br />
But it sure suits Sting. <br />
<br />
When it came to threesomes I was always a Jam man. Make of that sentence what you will. Shredded white reggae didn't do it for me. <br />
<br />
The only time I saw The Police play was at the Mont de Marsan Punk Festival in August 1977 when they hadn't quite perfected that shredded white reggae sound and were belting out two minute songs, albeit with a little more finesse and a little more professionalism than say The Clash or The Damned who played at the same festival. Incidentally, The Jam were to also set appear but there was an argument over billing so they refused to go on at the last minute. The headline act were Dr Feelgood who backstage consumed coke by hall mirror lengths. <br />
<br />
I journeyed down to the festival on a coach from London to a bullring near the Spanish border with an overnight stay in Paris. On board were assorted journalists and musicians including The Police. I’d never heard of the band and don’t recall speaking to them. But then, I don’t recall much of that speed-fuelled coach trip. <br />
<br />
The band’s slickness didn’t sit well in that hardcore punk arena. They were destined for greater things and I guess they probably knew it. With those looks and that voice, Sting was never gonna give you up. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">The band soldiered on in relative obscurity for 18 months until ‘Roxanne’ was reissued in April 1979 after flopping on its initial release the previous year. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">And the boy could act too. As The Face in Quadrophenia - that also appeared in 1979 - Sting was electrifying and predictably he was dubbed The Face of Pop. The greater things had arrived. I still had no affection for their music, despite the worldwide adulation. They were far too clean for me, no dirt under those manicured nails. <br />
<br />
I interviewed Sting twice, both over the phone. The second interview was for Flexipop! when he was the subject of Welcome To The Working Week in the spring of ’81. He was insanely intelligent and sharp and witty and refreshingly open. <br />
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<br />
<br />
I’ve only been stopped in my tracks twice during a one on one interview. <br />
<br />
The first was slapstick. <br />
<br />
At the start of an interview with an oddball Australian singer called Duffo in 1979, he offered me a cigarette from a legitimate packet. A few minutes into the interview the cigarette exploded in my face. I almost pooed my pants. Jesus, wouldn’t you? But then I creased up laughing. It really was hilarious. <br />
<br />
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, gingerly. ‘Only I do that with all the journalists who don’t know me and some don’t take it so well. They don’t get it.’ <br />
<br />
I got it and I loved it and the interview was really entertaining. It also made for a cracking angle. Knew his shit, did Duffo. To nearly poo your pants before you laugh – the essence of punk. <br />
<br />
Sting knew his shit, too. <br />
<br />
The second tracks-stopper occurred during that Working Week phone interview. On the Wednesday night of that week, Sting said he went to Dingwall’s to check out Jools Holland and his new band, The Millionaires. It just so happened my wife of less than one year went to Dingwall’s that very same evening with some friends – a rarity in itself. <br />
<br />
I couldn’t help but interrupt him in full flow and enlighten him on this coincidence. <br />
<br />
‘Yeah,’ he said, casually, ‘she was a great fuck.’ <br />
<br />
I almost pooed my pants. Jesus, wouldn’t you? But then I creased up laughing. He didn’t need to ask if I was okay. He knew. This was a man after my own heart. A Geordie with a Cockney sense of humour pulling my plonker. Unless of course he wasn’t. I wondered why she had that smile on her face when she came home that night… <br />
<br />
The unexpected is the lifeblood of great humour, and the edgier the better. This was right up my street in my kind of town. We talked for nearly two hours and it was peachy. <br />
<br />
I grew very fond of Sting after that, although I never met him, or indeed, spoke to him again – it’s hard to catch a star let alone put one in your pocket. I still didn’t like his music that by this time had become shredded bleached-blond reggae. <br />
<br />
There are very few songs that hit you so hard the first time you hear them that you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing, in a JFK/Elvis/John Lennon kinda way. As a kid I actually cried at the sheer beauty of ‘I Get Around’ fading in and out with the waves on Radio Luxemburg’s Sunday night Top 20 countdown (where everything faded in and out with the waves) as I strained to listen to my transistor under the blanket on my bed when I was supposed to be sleeping... <br />
<br />
‘Hey Jude’ on the David Frost TV show; ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on the car radio driving through cold country lanes in Gloucester; ‘Reach Out, I’ll Be There’ on Top Of The Pops; ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’ driving home on a wet Autumn night and pulling over because all I wanted to concentrate on was that song. <br />
<br />
It was May 1983, the day before I celebrated my third wedding anniversary. I was living in a council flat with my wife, Dina, in Camden Town. The sun was shining, the world was fresh and the juices ran down my legs. These were the good days, not just of wine and roses but love and romance and kissing to be clever. It was Saturday morning. I sat in the living room while Dina was in the tiny kitchen making Greek coffee. <br />
<br />
There was a batch of pre-release review copy singles in a bag by the side of the sofa. I’d brought them home from Flexipop! and thought I’d give a few a twirl on my Toshiba music centre turntable. <br />
<br />
I took the first one out of the bag – shit, The Police. I remembered Dina, no real fan of music, once saying that she quite liked ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me’ (hmmnn…) so I thought I’d give her a little treat while she made mine </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">metrio</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">. </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: medium;">The opening chords drifted out of those speakers like audible marijuana and, for a few precious moments, I became the music, circling those sweet vocals before soaring with them. Nothing else mattered. I was back in ‘I Get Around’ land and that same tear was about to fall. <br />
<br />
‘What was that called?’ said Dina as she brought the coffee into the room. <br />
<br />
‘Every Breath You Take.’ I said, breathlessly. <br />
<br />
‘It was lovely, but a bit creepy,’ <br />
<br />
Creepy? What did she mean, creepy? This was surely the most romantic song every written – ‘God Only Knows’ for a new generation. <br />
<br />
‘How he’ll be watching every move she makes, every day. Sounds like a potential murderer.’ <br />
<br />
What was she talking about? This was a man in love, like me, revealing his devotion, his desire. <br />
<br />
I played it again. <br />
<br />
These were the words of a stalker. A man so overcome with jealousy and hate that he wanted to ruin someone’s life by spying on her every single day because, unsurprisingly, she doesn’t love him anymore. He’s cold and angry and one step away from sticking a knife in her back. This was one deranged fucker. <br />
<br />
It was an utterly brilliant combination; discordant, dangerous thoughts hidden in the folds of such a divinely simple riff. I loved the song even more and I’ve loved it ever since. This blissful bolt from the blue was the perfect pop record - perversion drenched in beauty. Another Sting tale of the unexpected, played at weddings across the world. The essence of punk. <br />
<br />
And here I am, over thirty years later, on board the world’s most iconic cruise ship in Brooklyn port watching that still handsome Face from a few feet away sing his masterpiece like an evil angel. Or is it legal alien? <br />
<br />
It’s the first encore to a private show for 50 people that featured songs from his musical ‘The Last Ship’ which opened on Broadway a few days before. <br />
<br />
In front of a cool four-piece band and even cooler girl singer, Sting steered us through his own Testament Of Youth… <br />
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<b></b><br />
<b>Next: Sting’s live ‘Testament Of Youth’ <br />
<br />
© Barry Cain 2014 <br />
</b><br />
Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
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</span></span><br />Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-36678507943912333342014-10-12T19:02:00.002+01:002014-10-12T19:12:47.619+01:00<h2>
December 1979 <br />
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<b>Jewel in the bile </b><br />
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</span></span></b><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘I see myself as a member of the building trade – a rock ’n’ roll brickie. It all depends on just how good a brickie you want to be …’ </span></span></i><br />
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</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Ian Dury, man of Hod, has invited me round to his recently acquired West End flat – ‘I’ve only got a year lease. Haven’t got a fucking clue where I’ll be after that.’ <br />
<br />
When you’re writing the interview for Record Mirror, the Daily Record and the Evening News, you get bounced up to club class − invites to the homes. I’ve interviewed Ian once before -- we went ice skating together at Queensway, believe it or not. He’d just released New Boots and Panties, the outlet for a townful of emotion that swirled and bubbled in Dury’s jewel box. <br />
<br />
It created a unique market. Seldom out of the charts, the album has clocked up sales approaching half a million. <br />
<br />
The follow-up, Do It Yourself, was a disappointment. A bit self-indulgent maybe? Over-estimating the aural intelligence of the masses? Or just plain shit? <br />
<br />
After chatting to Ian for an hour and a half, I’m still not sure what he thinks of the album. <br />
<br />
‘I think we went a bit MOR simply because we tried to be so different from New Boots. But it has paved the way for a lot of new songs to be written. A lot more hard work will come as a result of it. Oh, well, you can’t disappoint everybody. The songs on Do It Yourself were more autobiographical, which may have been a mistake. Now that sounds as if I hate the album and it’s not true.’ <br />
<br />
Why was the album more autobiographical? <br />
<br />
‘In a personal way I wasn’t really happy last year. Everything that happened really messed up my normal life. I felt alone a lot of the time. I didn’t go out; I didn’t meet many new people. I guess it was obvious, in the light of that, how my songs would turn out.’ <br />
<br />
Are you a satirical songwriter? <br />
<br />
‘What’s that saying . . . ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit’? No. Satire is the last outpost of the bankrupt middle-class public-schoolboy wanker. There’s nothing very important about the entertainment industry. People worry too much about industrials. If it’s entertaining and people want to see it there doesn’t have to be any more reason.’ <br />
<br />
But it’s true he’s regarded as something of a hero by many. ‘And I’m amazed by it. To think me, just another normal crotchety old bastard, could be thought of as some kind of bod to a lot of people. I mean, for a start, I’m not all that reliable a person. I don’t go waving magic wands at people in real life. <br />
<br />
‘A bishop once told Mick Jagger he had a lot of respect. Jagger replied: "There is no respect attached to what I am." When I realised he really meant that I stopped loving him. The only real respect is a personal one. If someone wants to be decadent in private it’s their responsibility not to make a fuss about it. It’s not that wonderful a thing. In fact it’s very sad – the last outpost of someone who can’t relate to normality. I have a responsibility to keep myself together. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">'Ten years ago I could like myself quite easily. Now I have to work hard at it. But I still have that self-respect. If I lost that, I’d give up. Van Morrison used to get a lot of letters from people who said his songs prevented them from jumping off bridges. After he read them he’d say, "Christ, that’s another one I’ve stopped." I hope my songs don’t stop people jumping off bridges.’ <br />
<br />
He’s got a smile as blue as his baggy shirt. I’ve had my doubts about Dury in the past. It was that art-school/fart-school antecedence, that down-among-the-plebs pageantry. After our last interview I had a cast-iron respect, which has since rusted. But the longer he talks, the more I begin to realise he’s still out there on that ledge with the rest of us, scheming and dreaming. Scheming and dreaming … and screaming … <br />
<br />
But self-respect isn’t the only kind, is it, Ian? <br />
<br />
‘I do respect the guys I work with, enough to want to work with them. I don’t think they think I’m the best singer in the world. But I do object to being called, as I once was, the "Roy Hudd of rock". I mean, fuck me.’ <br />
<br />
Ian, do you think you’re ugly? <br />
<br />
‘Nah, I’m just around the corner and three doors down from handsome, that’s all. I still get my fair share of fan mail. A lot of the young ladies don’t seem to mind that much. In fact, some people seem to find me attractive. I have fourteen-year-old girls writing to me asking for a photograph. And I remember the last time I played at Hammersmith, ten girls leaped on the stage to get hold of me. ‘Oh yeah,’ he adds, tongue in cheekily, ‘I get the screamers alright. Gary Glitter watch out.’ <br />
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<br />
But he also takes great pains to point out that he doesn’t want to simply attract the ‘TTDC – that’s Teen and Twenty Disco Club. It’s like I’d rather do an interview with the Daily Mirror than the Observer. I want to reach as many kinds of people as possible. I’d be very happy if the audience was full of old age pensioners and little kids. <br />
<br />
‘You can’t attach much importance to what I do – although at the same time I hope I believe in what I do. I’m thirty-seven now. On my thirty-fifth birthday the telephone was cut off because I hadn’t paid my bill. I was skint. I was very worried about that telephone bill. Very worried. I don’t have to worry about the telephone bill any more. They used to say something about Keith Moon which I thought was a magnificent concept. They reckoned that if he’d left The Who at any time he would have been broke in six months. That’s a great thing to remember. <br />
<br />
‘I’ve been in a closeted atmosphere for quite some time. Mind you, I never was one for showing my face. Don’t like the scuffling it involves. I’m just not interested in that nonsense. I don’t find it very interesting in the way that, say, Bob Geldof or Billy Idol seem to. Oh, I didn’t have time to experience an identity crisis or anything like that. I was too bloody busy. Still am. I die when I’m alone … <br />
<br />
‘Still, I’ve been lucky. None of us are in debt. We’ve managed to stay alive by selling records. It’s all quite healthy. But I think the rest of the guys still worry about their telephone bills.’ <br />
<br />
He looks a little tired. Does he get depressed? <br />
<br />
‘I usually get moody when I’m exhausted but generally I don’t think there’s any point in taking things seriously. If we make mistakes on stage we just laugh. We know we’ve done our best and there’s absolutely no need to get uptight about it. The only people who know when you’ve played a bum note are musicians and they didn’t pay to get in anyway. So it doesn’t matter. <br />
<br />
‘It’s important to have normal feelings. I try hard to keep myself together in that way. I’d hate to end up like, say, Bob Dylan, living in that vast West Coast mansion. One day Dylan was walking down a narrow corridor with a huge bodyguard. This little guy came rushing towards them and bumped into Dylan. The bodyguard got hold of him <br />
<br />
and said, "Hey, do you know who you’ve just knocked into? That’s Bob Dylan." And the little guy replied, "I don’t care if it’s fucking Bob Donovan! Get outta my way!" <br />
<br />
‘Once I was walking down to a tube train when a mass of people suddenly swept me off my feet, and they didn’t touch the ground till I reached the platform. The train was already there and in the rush I fell over. Someone saw me and helped me onto my feet, which saved me from a right good stamping. It’s nice to have someone around to pick you up when you fall down. I get up quicker that way.’ <br />
<br />
Like all good circles the subject reverts back to respect. ‘I just don’t know why it should be that people respect me. After all, I’m only a bit of a spiv, a bit of a clown, a bit of a brat. It’s always easy for an oddball to be accepted.’ <br />
<br />
(The Blockheads broke up, re-formed, broke up, re-formed and gave their final performance at the London Palladium on 6 February 2000, supported by Kirsty MacColl. Ian died of cancer a few weeks later, aged fifty-seven. In my humble opinion, New Boots and Panties featured the finest lyrics ever written by a British artist) <br />
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Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-80517465532154435392014-10-03T15:58:00.000+01:002014-10-03T16:01:13.264+01:00<b><i><span style="font-size: small;">September 1979 <br />
</span></i><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;">New balls, please <br />
</span></span></b><br />
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</span></span></b><h4>
<br />Photo copyright Neil Matthews<br /></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Queen are among that elite number of bands universally despised by the rock press. And the feeling is, make no mistake, mutual. When you’ve been on the receiving end of a stream of vitriol at the outset of your career and watched it being carefully cultivated over the next six years, you’re bound to retaliate. <br />
<br />
Queen’s hatred manifests itself in their continued habit of ignoring the music press. There’s the occasional token chat, as pointless as it is innocuous, but in the main it amounts to a blanket, ‘No.’ <br />
<br />
One of the last interviews Freddie Mercury gave was the final nail in the Perspex coffin. Under a headline that boldly asked, ‘Is This Man A Prat?’ the king of the leotards was demolished by one of the old school Queen-haters and Freddie obviously came to the conclusion that interviews in future would be superfluous because he was popular enough already. It just wasn’t worth the hurt. <br />
<br />
The curtain, velvet naturally, closed. <br />
<br />
So I’m intrigued. <br />
<br />
I drive down to Roger Taylor’s very big house in the country for a chat about Freddie Mercury’s balls. In fact, his home is so large that when I go to the toilet halfway through the interview, I get lost. As I search around for the door to the lounge from which I emerged seemingly hours before, I walk past open French windows in an endless hallway and glimpse two people playing tennis in one of the courts outside − Freddie Mercury and Brian May. Freddie waves and I wave back, and that’s the closest I ever get to the guy. They may have released more than their fair share of duffers, but Queen cream is creamier than anyone else’s. It’s an honour to get a royal wave from the greatest showman of them all. <br />
<br />
But when Roger saw Freddie pirouette across the stage with the Royal Ballet in a skin-tight leotard and looking for all the world like the Fonteyn of youth, he had to admit Freddie had a lot of balls. <br />
<br />
‘I was more nervous than he was,’ says Roger, who’s not the biggest ballet fan in the world. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t do it. That’s just not me. But I’d like to see anyone else have the courage to do that − and carry it off as well as he did. He had a lot of bottle to go on that stage. He loves all that stuff.’ <br />
<br />
And as Freddie delighted the dickie-bow dahlings with his well-developed pas de deux and distributed his obvious terpsichorean talents liberally around the theatre, young Roger lent a hypercritical ear to the music − orchestral versions of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’. <br />
<br />
He wasn’t impressed. ‘It was awful. Badly played, under-rehearsed, they couldn’t even keep time. These guys seem to be ruled by opinions, not by music. A lot of people are conned by these classical musicians who bandy the word "culture" about so frequently. They hide behind it. Rock ’n’ roll isn’t culture − it’s vulgar, thank goodness.’ <br />
<br />
Still, you could hardly accuse Freddie of being ‘vulgar’, more Olga as in Korbut, such is his gymnastic dexterity when he leads Queen across the quiescent wastes of pomp (as in -adour) rock. <br />
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<br />
<br />
‘Freddie is only being himself. He doesn’t care − and it’s the only way to be. Some people think that’s great − others simply hate it.’ <br />
<br />
Roger, a little wary, a little weary, sits stiffly in an armchair. He seems to be the only member of Queen left who is prepared, albeit rarely, to open his mouth in the presence of a hack. ‘We all sat around a table to discuss the press situation and we agreed I should be the one to represent the band. Freddie is very uncompromising and refuses to have much to do with journalists.’ <br />
<br />
Roger, too, has a very low opinion of the music press. ‘Most of it is rubbish,’ he says. ‘There was something I liked recently, a piece on Malcolm McLaren.’ (Hope it was mine.) ‘I think I’m the only member of Queen to actually read the music papers.’ <br />
<br />
Why does he think the band are slagged? <br />
<br />
‘Queen have always come across as being a rather confident band and I think the press may have mistaken confidence for arrogance. Hence they became very wary of our motives, which in turn has bred a dislike for our music.’ <br />
<br />
At the risk of being sent to Coventry by my colleagues, I’d like, if I may, to come clean. I love Queen. My love affair began with a simple, pre-packed but indispensable line – ‘Dynamite with a laser beam’ -- and has continued mainly uninterrupted right through to Live Killers. <br />
<br />
Why? <br />
<br />
Freddie Mercury’s lascivious lisp – the most attractive intonation known to man; Brian May’s reel-’em-off rococo riffs that would, in his capable hands, transform the music for Corrie into a masterwork; John Deacon’s stoic stance; Roger Taylor’s intense power, so unexpected from one so slight; the band’s ability to go over the top without falling into the trap of caricature; a desire to give the punters what they want; their cast-iron confidence; those nine glorious winter weeks of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, which kept the cold away from my door. <br />
<br />
The monkey on Queen’s back, as corpulent and cantankerous as ever, has been put there by those who firmly believe they can never emulate past achievements. <br />
<br />
‘That all began after "Bohemian Rhapsody",’ says Roger. ‘When it stayed at number one all those weeks, we were told that we would never be able to make another single to rival it both artistically and from the point of view of sales.’ <br />
<br />
Yet ‘We Are The Champions’ sold a great many more. Why did they decide to dispense with the services of a manager? <br />
<br />
‘Because we were fed up with giving other people money. I mean, everything seems so great when you get into the charts for the first time. You’re living on cloud nine and nothing else matters. But in truth that hit means absolutely nothing. Oh, you think you’re really living . . . for a while. Somebody gets you a flat in Chelsea and it’s all free. But one day the rent stops being paid for you and you realise you’re skint.’ <br />
<br />
My attention is suddenly diverted. <br />
<br />
‘Forty--love.’ <br />
<br />
Wimbledon, the Persil white opiate for the suburban strawberry munchers, wrings out its perspiring petticoats on the huge back-projection TV in the next room. Roger’s girlfriend, an extremely attractive French girl called Dominique, is engrossed. The couple have lived together for two years. Crippled old marriage questions permeate the air. <br />
<br />
‘I don’t believe in marriage,’ says Roger. ‘It’s simply a contract and the fewer contracts I enter into the better.’ <br />
<br />
What’s it like having a bank account overflowing with money at the age of twenty-nine? <br />
<br />
‘I’ve completely lost touch with how much things cost. When you find yourself living in hotels for so long you never really deal in money as such. Everything is available whenever you want it − but you never see the cash actually being handed over. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be penniless, which Queen were for years.’ <br />
<br />
Roger is a decent chap who knows how to schmooze. In fact, most of these guys are pretty decent chaps, whether they’re Bruce Springsteen or Joe Strummer, Lemmy or Johnny Rotten, Debbie Harry or Paul Weller. There’s a kind of streak of decency that links them all. They are artists, masters of their crafts, confident in their ability, devout in their belief. They know what they want and they know how to get it. They don’t want to destroy, they want to create. They are your friends. They help you glide through life. <br />
<br />
A music journalist kinda destroys more than he creates because it’s a lot fucking easier to write. It’s one of life’s tragedies. <br />
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<br />
<br />
(Roger has released four solo albums – two since Freddie Mercury’s death in 1991. He also released three albums with his band the Cross between 1987 and 1993. He still played under the Queen name with guitarist Brian May and ex-Free singer Paul Rodgers, and they released the album Cosmos Rocks in 2008. Since 2011, May and Taylor have collaborated with vocalist Adam Lambert under the name of Queen + Adam Lambert. Later this year, Queen will release a new album, <em>Queen Forever<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></em><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">, featuring vocals from the late Freddie Mercury. The band had 18 No. 1 albums, 18 No. 1 singles, and 10 No. 1 DVDs. Estimates of their record sales generally range from 150 million to 300 million records, making them one of the world's best-selling music artists. They received the Outstanding Contribution to British Music Award from the British Phonographic Industry in 1990, and were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2001. Roger has been married twice and has five children.) </span></span> </span></span><br />
<h2>
Next: Ian Dury </h2>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><b>
</b></span><b><br /></b></span><b><br /></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-12774452539316548542014-08-21T23:13:00.000+01:002014-08-21T23:24:08.004+01:00<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">December 1979 <br />
<br />
</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;">Goodfellas </span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">On the day that Hugh Cornwell gets a two-month jail sentence for drug possession, Harry Casey of KC & The Sunshine Band tells me he collects parrots. ‘I have fifty in my bedroom at home. One, Sparky, can sing all my hits. The parrots are more intelligent than a lot of people I’ve met in the music business.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
<br />
I think it’s a travesty of justice − Hugh, not the parrots − and smacks of one of those make-an-example-of sentences, given purely for the sake of publicity, I used to see a lot as a court reporter. <br />
<br />
Hugh had tiny amounts on him when randomly stopped in a car he wasn’t even driving, amounts for which anyone else would’ve been fined or even conditionally discharged. It’s anti-punk hogwash. Hugh doesn’t have a bad bone in his body. The Stranglers’ tough stance and despicable reputation is derived almost entirely from Jean-Jacques Burnel; Hugh is more big softie than arch villain but his fierce intelligence helps him adapt to any situation. <br />
<br />
I feel so strongly that I write to him in prison and he writes back. His letter is long and intimate − unlike many of his interviews – and he mentions he’d like to talk to me about the whole experience in an extended interview when he gets out. Until then I think it’s time to renew my acquaintance with the Clash, who are growing bigger by the minute… <br />
<br />
The James Cagney of punk, Joe Strummer – stone-faced, steel-capped, stacked high − sneers and stares, as usual. He’s holed up in the Clash house, a terraced tenement teardrop twenty-four hours from Tulse Hill. He sticks his gun out of the window. ‘Political power grows from the barrel of a gun,’ he screams. And smiles. <br />
<br />
Next to him Mick Humphrey Bogart Jones is looking depressed. Maybe, he thinks, he wasn’t really cut out for this. Casablanca is a million miles away and Claude Rains supreme. <br />
<br />
Paul Muni Simenon − or Skaface (don’t call me that) as the Streatham Locarno lotus-eaters dubbed him − sits patiently in a corner. He never did like Mondays anyway. <br />
<br />
Edward G. Headon works flat out in the basement supplying the ammo. He smiles. Whatever else may happen, the humdrum will never snare him now. <br />
<br />
Outside they put the batteries into the loudspeaker. <br />
<br />
Next door Lester bangs on the wall. It’s raining. Naturally. <br />
<br />
The guy holding the loudspeaker is wet through. <br />
<br />
‘Come out with your hands up.’ <br />
<br />
‘Come in and get us, Topper -- sorry, copper,’ says Joe. ‘There’s no way we’re gonna appear on Top of the Pops alive. You won’t get us standing there like pricks propping up a load of old shit. How can we bash our guitars with passion when they ain’t even plugged in? How can we sing when the mike is phoney? The show’s like an anaemic rice pudding. Give me Tiswas any day.’ <br />
<br />
Mick turns to Joe. ‘But we do lose out by not playing on it. I can’t see us ever having a Top Ten single as a result.’ <br />
<br />
‘Mugs!’ The word leaps from the loudspeaker and reverberates around the street. <br />
<br />
‘We’ll never change our attitude,’ screams Mick, changing his attitude. ‘We’ll never prostitute ourselves.’ <br />
<br />
‘You might as well go and give someone a blow-job for ten bob than appear on Top of the fucking Pops,’ yells Joe. <br />
<br />
Lester bangs on the wall again. ‘Hey, you guys, will you shut your fucking noise?’ <br />
<br />
The loudspeaker guy decides to goad the band. Snipers are positioned on rooftops. <br />
<br />
‘Your new album’s crap.’ <br />
<br />
‘The world is full of assholes,’ screams Joe. ‘No matter what you do or which way you turn, there’s always twenty people ready to slag you off − and they’re always the fucking loudest. Well, they can all go fuck themselves. Imagine if you saw your imitators getting hits and glory with their imitations? Wouldn’t you feel like leaving them to it and moving onto a new pasture? It makes me sick, watching all these blokes in zipped pants piss-arsing around.’ <br />
<br />
Mick lights a cigarette and talks through the smoke. ‘Maybe we should’ve brought the first album out again for these idiots, blue eyes.’ <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
‘No,’ says Joe. ‘Maybe we should’ve brought out a hammer. A nice hammer. Those people who were expecting something heavy from London Calling probably think we sound like Frank Sinatra. But it’s a damned sight better than most of the other plastic shit like PIL or the Jam. I don’t get any kicks out of listening to that.’ <br />
<br />
‘Yeah, but that’s you,’ says Mick. ‘I don’t think these bands should be lumbered together just because they don’t move you emotionally.’ <br />
<br />
‘I’m not lumbering them together. They’re just examples. It’s their style of rock − bam bam bam.’ <br />
<br />
Joe aside: ‘I certainly feel better these days. I’m more in touch with reality, the reality of all this monkeying about. Before, we were losing a ton of money, packets of it. On our first tour everyone would just jump into the nearest hotel and smash it up then leave. It never occurred to me that they’d send the bills to just us ’cos everyone was smashing it up − all the support acts. No, we got all the bills for it. That brings you down.’ <br />
<br />
Mick aside: ‘I used to be optimistic. Not anymore. Maybe it’s because they wouldn’t give me a mortgage. I’m just a misery guts these days. I guess it happened ever since I started getting involved in the Clash.’ <br />
<br />
In the flashing blue moonlight, Loudspeaker Man calls: ‘You can’t stay in there for ever.’ There’s no reply from the house. ‘You’re just a bunch of publicity-seeking losers.’ <br />
<br />
‘The press love us,’ says Joe. ‘They’re orgasmic about the Clash. That’s because we’re not dummies. Like with Lester Bangs -- he ended up driving round in our van or six days. He must’ve revelled in it. But I thought all that stuff he wrote was rubbish. You must be able to say it better than that.’ Lester stops banging. <br />
<br />
Family priest, Spencer Tracy, tells Loudspeaker Man he’s going in. He dances in and out of the puddles that lead like a daisy chain to the Clash house. The band watch him enter. <br />
<br />
‘This is no place for you,’ says Joe, as Father Tracy walks in. <br />
<br />
‘Bejasus, we all became too complacent too fast.’ <br />
<br />
‘I’ve never been complacent,’ says Joe. ‘I’d be scared if we had a mammoth hit. Is there anyone in the whole world who can write a good song after selling a million? You can’t say John Lennon. You can’t say Bob Dylan. The proof is, as soon as they make it they don’t seem to be able to write decent songs anymore.’ <br />
<br />
Father Tracy fondles his rosary. ‘But, boys, don’t you think you write better songs if you suffer?’ <br />
<br />
‘If you suffer and write bad songs you’re suffering even more,’ replies Mick, philosophically. <br />
<br />
‘Yes, my sons,’ says Father Tracy. ‘But a lot of people have lost faith in you. The band are now doing everything they once vilified − like touring America.’ <br />
<br />
‘Look, Father, we’ve got to take care of business,’ says Joe. ‘Instead of sitting in this shithole not selling records, we might as well go to that bigger shithole over there and not sell any. We haven’t been to anywhere like Japan yet but we’re certainly gonna try to get there this year. I hear it’s a bit creepy over there.’ <br />
<br />
‘It’s only creepy,’ insists Paul, ‘because they’re all down there and we’re all up here.’ <br />
<br />
‘But what about the things you said? People believed in you,’ says Father Tracy. <br />
<br />
‘That was business,’ says Joe. ‘I don’t care about business. I piss on it from a great height. I’m only interested in the music. If that’s going great that’s all that matters. It’s depressing when you lose a lot of dough or when something goes wrong. But it doesn’t really affect me as much as the music. If that’s cool it dictates all the rest. You’ve got to realise that I love music. I’m obsessed with it. Surely you don’t think I wander round worrying about the economy all the time. Look, if I had a weekend off I’d spend it twanging a guitar, not going to Karl Marx’s grave to make a brass rubbing. <br />
<br />
‘People took us the wrong way. When I sang "Sten Guns In Knightsbridge", it was about them shooting us. But people started saying, "Yeah, the Clash have got the Sten guns." We haven’t got any Sten guns, the army have. I tried to make that point clear in interviews afterwards but it was no good. They still kept saying, "If you ever keep that promise to go to Knightsbridge with Sten guns we’ll be with you." And then everyone thought we used to wear army fatigues. They weren’t. They were Clash trousers.’ <br />
<br />
‘Yeah,’ says Paul. ‘We designed them with so many pockets so you could hide your dope easily. And they were better than the bondage trousers ’cos you could run in them and hop over walls. With bondage ones you kept tripping over the chains.’ <br />
<br />
‘But the songs on London Calling,’ says Father Tracy, ‘they’re not as emotive as before.’ <br />
<br />
‘We’re just expanding our subject matter,’ replies Joe. ‘We don’t want to repeat ourselves − that’s the most heinous crime you can commit. I mean, do we have to be like the Ramones and release seven albums of the same stuff? If people want that all the time they can get it from the Ruts or the UK Subs. There’s plenty of groups playing good head-banging music. London Calling is a musical shark attack. The saxes on it are great. It’s best not to tart the songs up too much. I mean, I wouldn’t put horns on everything. But one day I’d like to have a horn section on stage, not standing at one end all night just blowing but like when they have a funeral in New Orleans and walk in a long line. I’d like them always walking, maybe out into the audience. <br />
<br />
‘I’m getting nervous now . . . Here’s looking at you, kid,’ he says to Father Tracy. <br />
<br />
‘But I’m supposed to say that,’ says Mick. <br />
<br />
‘Well, there’s no way you’re gonna get me to say "you dirty rat".’ <br />
<br />
‘You fucking dirty rat,’ says Mick. <br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Next: Queen <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-70526256746856220862014-08-08T16:14:00.001+01:002014-08-08T16:15:40.736+01:00<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">June 1979 <br />
</span></i><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;">The Spoiler </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Part Three </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘I wanted to make Sid a star.’ <br />
<br />
But you just said you prevented the Pistols from becoming such animals. <br />
<br />
‘Ah, but that was before I realised people wanted a star. And the last star they wanted was Sid – that’s why I would have made him the biggest star of them all. He would have been number one now, had he lived. Let’s face it, he had one of the best rock ’n’ roll voices in years. He had the right attitude, plus the one basic self-destruct ingredient to make him the tops – he never, ever saw a red light. Only green. He would do anything, anywhere, anytime. <br />
<br />
‘Do you know the song I was going to let him sing –"Mack The Knife"? See, all the songs have been written. It doesn’t matter anymore about writing. Just take the culture by its throat, like we did with "My Way". He could have competed with Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, Tom Jones, all of them. I wanted to take him to Las Vegas, to let him perform in the nightclubs. But he missed the boat and so did I. <br />
<br />
'I was very upset when he died. Sid was the one to be the star and he was the ideal person for me to abuse. I suppose I was partly responsible for his death. I wish I could’ve been there. He wouldn’t have died if I’d been around. The man had to go and that was what he was destined for. <br />
<br />
‘He wanted to be accepted. He loved the razzmatazz of show business. That’s why Rotten hated him. The Pistols were the ultimate showbiz group. After Sid died I tried to promote him as being THE Sex Pistol.’ <br />
<br />
Wasn’t it a big mistake to head for the States with the band? <br />
<br />
‘Of course. I was against it. I wanted them to go to Leningrad.’ <br />
<br />
East meets West with McLaren as mediator. <br />
<br />
‘It’s a question of knowing what you’re doing. Sometimes you work on your gut reaction, sometimes your intellect. Most times I’m able to combine the two and that’s why I’m successful. I can make money,’ contradiction time, ‘but it never really bothers me. Oh, it does now because I don’t have very much. When you’re riding on the crest of a wave like I was you get to know when to seize the moment and take the initiative. Like making a record with a fifty-year-old ex-train robber.’ <br />
<br />
Are you immoral? <br />
<br />
‘Johnny Rotten was a good Catholic boy who didn’t have the immorality that I possess. He had this silly idea about honour. Kids don’t want to be honourable. They want to be destructive and fabulously immoral and at the same time they want to be exploited or to exploit. If they don’t have the expertise for the latter they take the first choice. That’s why they get onto a stage. That’s a tremendous sexual release and an alleviation of all that they’ve lived through for the past sixteen years. <br />
<br />
‘One of the Sex Pistols great contributions was getting rid of the music. Kids got more interested in reading about them going up the Amazon with a train robber than sitting in their bedrooms listening to bland old music. It added adventure to their lives. It stimulated them on their way to work. <br />
<br />
‘Oh, how I hate all these abominable groups. How I hate all these silly little record labels like Rough Trade. How I hate Rock Against Racism. Who cares? It just makes people join silly little armies. <br />
<br />
‘Do you know something? More hippies listen to punk now. They’re the ones who buy the records. The actual punks are still on the streets, the nearest thing to the Dickensian image of the urchin. You don’t see them in the shops buying Human League records – but you do see the hippies. It gets less exciting every day. It’s a good job the audience jump up on stage and try to strangle Jimmy Pursey. They should try and destroy such silly people. <br />
<br />
‘I’m convinced the kids don’t want that. The record industry is dying, it’s not important any more. The 1980s will be the decade of the painter. There will be a big visual explosion – that’s why records are appearing in a variety of colours now. If a kid can pick up a guitar he can just as easily pick up a tin of paint. <br />
<br />
‘Okay, I shot my bolt, but I’m proud of it. As far as I’m concerned there is a fantastic excitement in Europe, excluding England. All those kids on the streets in France, Spain and Italy want to share in that attitude – maybe I can find a niche. The kids are bored. They don’t care about these singers. They would enjoy going to a fashion show and seeing dancers with music providing just a background. They don’t care who’s up on that stage. Look at Ian Dury’s new album – punk à la Weather Report. It’s wallpaper music. <br />
<br />
‘People in the record industry are useless. They’re only interested in pinewood furniture and getting Jimmy Pursey on the golf course. It’s all so cosily liberal. That’s why they hate me. I hit them where it hurts.’ <br />
<br />
So, what projects loom on the horizon? ‘I’m thinking of doing a TV film on the history of Oxford Street set around child thieves through the ages. They’re all in search of their mother and they find her in the end – a fabulous Faginesque character carrying twenty-five handbags. And I’d love to open a music-hall style club where the music itself would be demoted to the toilet. Kids can tune in to what they want down there while upstairs they’re busy telling each other jokes and performing in front of audiences made up of themselves.’ <br />
<br />
Malcolm McLaren, punk’s most famous iconoclast, has a recurring nightmare: ‘I keep seeing these huge Edwin Shirley trucks going up and down the M1. Up and down, up and down, up and down. <br />
<br />
‘Who needs it...?’ <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Next: Queen <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a><br />
</span><br /></span><br />Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-14640133450710179752014-08-05T20:20:00.001+01:002014-08-05T20:21:39.082+01:00<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">June 1979 <br />
</span></i><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;">The Spoiler </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Part Two </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘I was born into a wealthy Jewish diamond-dealing family and brought up in a rambling Victorian mansion in Clissold Park, Islington. My second cousin is Danny Kaye and I believe the spectacularly ugly Marjorie Proops is some kind of niece of mine. Anyway, she was brought up in the same house. <br />
<br />
'My grandmother was extremely middle class. She taught me a lot and told me wonderful stories about how she used to sell fake diamonds to pawnbrokers and how she and Agatha Christie were the greatest of friends. My mother was man mad and my father, whom I hardly ever saw, was involved in the second-hand car business. I haven’t seen my mother for twelve years. Last time I heard she had suffered a heart attack. I never did care much about family ties.’ <br />
<br />
The family eventually moved to Hendon and Malcolm remembers cleaning Bob Monkhouse’s car because he lived in the house opposite. ‘At the age of thirteen I was a real West-Ender. I used to go to a club where lesbians would copulate on brass bedsteads. My mother was a snob so she insisted that my first job should be a wine-taster. I became a real expert and they asked me to go to Portugal. But I didn’t fancy that so I left. <br />
<br />
‘I then went from job to job à la Brook Street Bureau and finally ended up working for an accountancy firm in Devonshire Street, W1, a few doors away from Stephen Ward during the Christine Keeler affair. The milkman used to tell me about the goings-on he often saw.’ <br />
<br />
There followed a short stint at Fyfe’s bananas where he booked people into cabins on their cargo lines. <br />
<br />
‘Then my mother decided it was time for me to learn French so she packed me off to Cannes. Upon my return I entered an art college and got involved in graphic design. <br />
<br />
I started hanging around with beatniks in coffee bars and stayed out all night on one occasion. There was a blazing row when I got home so I left. I was seventeen.’ <br />
<br />
For the next six years he attended a succession of art colleges all over the country. ‘I used to obtain grants under different names. I even married a French Turk when I was twenty for fifty pounds to enable her to stay in Britain. I found myself working in galleries with people like John Lennon and Yoko Ono. <br />
<br />
‘I got involved with the French riots of ’68 and helped create a huge festival when I was at Goldsmiths College in London during the week of Brian Jones’s death.’ <br />
<br />
It transpires that McLaren ‘gave up’ listening to rock music between 1964 and 1976. ‘I knew everything there was to know about rock ’n’ roll between ’58 and ’64. People like Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, they were the ones. The fifties was one of the most anarchistic decades in history. But then the industry took control and throughout the sixties and early seventies music meant nothing.’ <br />
<br />
The day the music died for him was when the Beatles arrived on the scene. ‘They were the worst thing that ever happened to rock ’n’ roll. All that nice-boy-from-an-industrial-wasteland nonsense. In fact, when the Pistols started being compared to the Beatles in terms of their importance their days were numbered. The Pistols’ nearest equivalent was the anarchistic fifties, not the lukewarm sixties.’ <br />
<br />
He had built up a collection of over five thousand rock ’n’ roll singles and they were his only contact with music. ‘But then I thought it time to pick up on the music I’d refused to listen to. I used to go around stalls in the markets listening to things like Velvet Underground. It was awful. <br />
<br />
‘Then I went to see the movie Woodstock and I started to realise there was a rock ’n’ roll revival in the air. I thought the time was ripe to create an oasis in this hippie desert. I would walk down the Kings Road looking very Elvis Presleyish and one day I was grabbed by a guy who ran the Paradise Garage. We started selling fifties clothes and I would bring my records to the shop to provide the right background music. I started getting acquainted with the new rockers, the Rod Stewarts, the Faces. I did all the clothes for the David Essex movie That’ll Be the Day and then the shop really caught on. Even Lionel Blair came in one day to buy a drape suite.’ <br />
<br />
He was now aware that he was in on something big. ‘My ideas were strong − but they were also revivalist. I decided it was no good being retro. I had to get the feeling of the day. So I started the Sex shop. It was so obvious. There were all these designers trying to make people look sexy. All I had to do was take the crudest points of this − like tight black plastic trousers, bondage gear and so on − and adopt sex as an attitude. I needed the music, though. I needed vulgar music. Oh, sure, there were some fairly interesting things around at that time, like Iggy Pop, but it still wasn’t right. So I split to New York and managed the New York Dolls for six months.’ <br />
<br />
When he came back to London he was still searching for the ‘right’ sound. ‘I had all these kids in my shop who looked Bowieish and Ferryish, but they really didn’t want to be either. Then Steve Jones and Paul Cook walked in one day . . . <br />
<br />
‘I used the expertise I had obtained from working in the shop to create this band. They didn’t possess much musical ability, but I realised that didn’t matter. It was simply a question of selling an attitude in as hard a way as possible. I thought it must be better to make a success out of a group who couldn’t play rather than a group that could − and I did.’ <br />
<br />
Er, isn’t that a little callous? I venture, as he lifts his fourth cup of tea. He casually places it back in the saucer without taking a sip. <br />
<br />
‘But I am callous,’ he assures me. ‘It’s my job to be callous. I don’t set myself up to be portrayed as a nice guy. In fact, I much prefer to be portrayed as a gangster. I don’t want to be associated with the Mick Jaggers and the Rod Stewarts of the world. They’re another kind of gangster – the gangsters of love. They take love away; I leave it where it is. I’m more money-orientated. Those people are the music business.’ <br />
<br />
I tap my crème brûlée. It has a hard surface with a soft, creamy interior. I wonder if the soul across the table is simply a human crème brûlée. <br />
<br />
Malcolm? <br />
<br />
‘Yes.’ <br />
<br />
Are you . . . No, it doesn’t matter. We sit awhile in silence. So, now he’s told me his motives, though I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s devoid of such artifice. Maybe it was purely a game, y’know, the one I mentioned at the start. Some he wins, some he loses. He doesn’t like losing: that’s why he’s now talking so freely. Losing sixty grand would leave me very bitter. <br />
<br />
And he’s also told me his life story. Now seems the appropriate time for his views on one Sidney Vicious, punk of this parish, deceased… <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Next: More Malcolm <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-58209954318182418442014-07-31T18:12:00.000+01:002014-07-31T18:32:42.394+01:00<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">June 1979 <br />
</span></i><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-large;">The Spoiler </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Part One </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
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</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">There’s a certain person not unconnected with IPC that Alf Martin, the editor of Record Mirror, has some sort of history with, so when Alf finds out that one of the publisher’s magazines, Melody Maker, is planning a big relaunch with an exclusive Malcolm McLaren interview as the star attraction, he has a discreet word with me. <br />
<br />
‘Can you track down McLaren and get an interview?’ He’s looking for a spoiler, a newspaper term for upstaging a rival by getting an exclusive on their exclusive. I have two weeks. Philip Marlowe for a fortnight. <br />
<br />
It’s a tough ask. I don’t know Malcolm like I know the band. Managers don’t figure much in my life, probably because of my short-lived PR stint. Malcolm kinda passed me by. I talked to him backstage a few times and at the odd reception but that was about it. <br />
<br />
I make a million phone calls. I hang around near his Glitterbest offices off Oxford Street. I go to his favourite bars and clubs. I ask Steve Jones when I bump into him at the Marquee. ‘Never know where the fucker is. He can be hard to get hold of if he doesn’t want to be got hold of, y’know what I mean?’ <br />
<br />
I do now. It’s impossible to locate him. He obviously doesn’t want to be got hold by me, that’s for sure. <br />
<br />
Then one fine day, spoiler deadline looming, in desperation I ring the office number a final time and Malcolm answers. <br />
<br />
‘Well, I’ll say this for you,’ he says. ‘You’re tenacious. Let’s meet up.’ He must know the score. He must know the Melody Maker relaunch hinges almost entirely on him. He must. What a smooth operator … <br />
<br />
We arrange to meet at a Covent Garden wine bar for lunch on Record Mirror. Bet he doesn’t show. <br />
<br />
He does. Three hours later I have my shorthand spoiler. I split the interview into two parts and Alf splashes the first with Malcolm on the cover the week before the Melody Maker relaunch hits the shelves and that week we don’t need to splash the final part – it’s just a spread inside. That’s so last week’s thing. Cool, huh? <br /><br />Regrets? He’s had a few -- but then again, too few to mention at this stage of the game. And it is a game, never doubt that. <br />
<br />
Now, Malcolm McLaren sits in the corner of a Covent Garden wine bar eating duck, out of luck, doesn’t give a fuck. He’s only too willing to discuss motives, coups, idiosyncrasies, top hats and tales. Well, what else is there to do on a rainy Monday in London when you’re used to perfumey Paris? <br />
<br />
That’s where his makeshift home is at the moment. But he’s not there to sip coffee in the Champs-Élysées and watch the girls go by. Too unproductive for a man like McLaren. No, he’s now involved in the lucrative European porn business. ‘The continent has a fabulous porno film market − but they just don’t make them for younger people. I want to make them with good music, good stories. They’ll love ’em.’ <br />
<br />
I’m sure the kids will love anything this five-and-dime-store hero can come up with. He met a bunch in London recently. ‘I expected them to slag me off. Instead they asked, "What’s next, Malcolm? What are you going to do now?" I gave them something at the end of the day. They knew Johnny Rotten was simply an idea, an idea that gave them the excuse to leave their jobs and have an adventure instead of carrying on and playing safe. That’s what they’re grateful for.’ <br />
<br />
Gratitude is probably the last thing McLaren thought he would get when he set out on the road to ignominy three years ago with the Sex Pistols, those pig-swill idolatry bashers. It wasn’t gratitude this red-haired conjuror sought. It was, he shamelessly admits, greenbacks. <br />
<br />
‘I set out,’ he smiles and wipes some orange sauce from his mouth, ‘to swindle the rock-and-roll industry out of one million pounds. I failed. It was just nine hundred and fifty grand.’ <br />
<br />
But wait. That wasn’t all he was after. ‘And I wanted to cause chaos. Cash from chaos. I use a word which the British have always found distasteful − exploitation. I wanted to make the show-business world cry. I really took that word "exploit" and bloody well pumped it dry, using it in any shape or form without mercy. I’m ruthless like that.’ He orders a pot of tea. ‘Every time I came up with the germ of an idea, the industry shook. I created a lot of problems both economically and philosophically. At the end of the day, I made the audience more important than the act and for that I will never be forgiven. <br />
<br />
‘I replaced the star with the image − and that was the Sex Pistols. I always made absolutely sure that the band would never be stars. When Johnny Rotten took it upon himself to be one I threw him out. And when Glen Matlock left I brought in Sid Vicious simply to procure more money.’ <br />
<br />
Well, it wasn’t for his musical abilities, that’s for sure. <br />
<br />
Apparently, our hero knew his cheapskate chimeras would never sell that many records. ‘Out of all the money we made, only about a hundred and fifty thousand was profits from records. Most of the money was obtained by fabulous advances that I secured from companies at the moment of signing. By the time we brought out "God Save The Queen", which I reckon only sold about forty thousand copies worldwide, we were the number-one band. We were the great talking point, an attitude, an image. But we were never a band. Oh, there were a few cute songs like "Anarchy" and "Queen". But they weren’t important. We were the fabulous symbol of ruin, of no future. The "Destroy" T-shirts I had in my shop sold like hot cakes – fifty thousand in the UK alone. <br />
<br />
‘I know it’s been suggested that I’m the big con man of the world. Well, let me tell you, I feel very proud to be called that. My hero is the man who "sold" the Eiffel Tower to a fool. <br />
<br />
‘I’m not a liberal. I love extremity. Most people want you to tear down things. They want you to be shocking. They don’t want you to be seen shaking hands with Sir John Reid − they want to see you throw a pie in his face. They don’t care if a band can play. They want to know it can’t but that it’s still up there, on top of that steeple, shaking music by the neck. I never allowed the Pistols to think they were good. I prevented them from becoming stars . . .’ <br />
<br />
Recently McLaren was successfully sued by John Lydon and reckons he had to pay out around £60,000 in legal costs. ‘I was warned six months before the case that it would happen but I just carried on regardless and was so ill-prepared when it arrived that I created my own burial.’ <br />
<br />
He says he can’t discuss certain subjects involved in the case for legal reasons. ‘I could be held in contempt of court but I don’t care. I’ll never go behind bars for anyone. My companies − Glitterbest and Matrixbest − are now in the hands of the receiver and my shops have been closed down. I haven’t got much money left. There’s some in Brazil and some in the States.’ <br />
<br />
So what happened to the proceeds from his great ‘swindle’? <br />
<br />
‘I spent it all on a few hot dinners, a few plane rides, and generally having a good time. It was a shame it couldn’t continue, but I suppose I had to get found out in the end.’ <br />
<br />
He attributes part of the blame for his downfall on the movie, The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle, the bowel-movement account of the Pistols’ history. In the film McLaren tells, in a series of easy lessons, how you can swindle the music business. Examples − ‘Don’t play, don’t give the game away’ and ‘Always remain a mystery.’ <br />
<br />
He says he put a lot of time and money into the project and is disappointed with the result. ‘It’s like a half baked Hard Day’s Night and all I could do to disassociate myself from it was to get my name taken off the credits.’ <br />
<br />
He sips his tea sedately and smokes profusely. His laugh is both frequent and infectious and promotes curious stares from other tables for the duration of his recital. <br />
<br />
The movie should be released in a month or so and will no doubt raise a few eyebrows and incite deer to commit acts of atrocity since their patron saint Bambi gets topped by either a hippie (never trust them) or the Pistols, it’s hard to make out which. <br />
<br />
‘I was concerned with getting money for nothing,’ says McLaren, as he orders a second pot of tea. ‘I’m just a good salesman, a clothes salesman.’ <br />
<br />
True, very true. But there is a little more to our silver-tongued Svengali than that. What follows is his own account of his picaresque adventures before embarking on ‘The Swindle’. Of course, it may or may not be true − but I can assure you it’s fun to read . . . <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Next: More Malcolm <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-84458054265710362272014-06-22T21:12:00.002+01:002014-06-22T21:12:31.843+01:00<b><span style="font-size: large;">30 April 1979 <br />
</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">2000 Light Years From Home <br />
<br />
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<br /></span><br /></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">In Chicago 14,000 Stones fans gather outside the International Amphitheatre, which resembles an obese Roundhouse. <br />
<br />
Perusing the horde from the back of a cab, I conclude that spotting a Stones fan is a cinch. They always look younger than they really are and they’re more fashion-conscious − not a flare in the world − than the average Who/Zep/Deep Purple partisan. They also can’t tell the bottom from the top. <br />
<br />
Yet there’s a subliminal sixties approach to their fanaticism, their rational exuberance, their walk. If they’d been born twenty years earlier, Liberace would’ve been the diamond-studded object of their indestructible affection. <br />
<br />
But it’s not the Stones these predominantly hirsute resurrectionists have come to see. Well, not all of them. No, it’s none other than Ronnie Wood, that desultory epitome of the hackneyed phrase, ‘good-time rock’, who’s about to brighten this domed Chicago night with a song in his heart. <br />
<br />
Oh, and there’s Keith Richards. A mite less lugubrious than Mr Wood but that’s just his way. And, of course, there are a few other good-time Joes in the shape of ex-Small Faces/Faces Ian McLagan and Kenney Jones, Weather Report’s Stanley Clarke, saxophonist Bobby Keys and Meters drummer Ziggy Modeliste. <br />
<br />
This disparate combo answer to the name of the New Barbarians, a title apparently suggested to Ronnie by Neil Young when it looked likely that the man with the bollock-squeezing vocals might join the band as well. <br />
<br />
They were hastily assembled to promote a solo Wood album, Gimme Some Neck, on a hastily put together US tour neatly slotting into a Stones time warp of sunbathing, divorce suits and writing. <br />
<br />
The crowd at the Amphitheatre, where The Beatles played and where Elvis first wore his gold lame suit, is plagued with ‘Willy’ rumours. ‘Will Jagger play?’; ‘Will Stewart show?’; ‘Willy?’ <br />
<br />
‘Who needs guests?’ yells Ronnie, at the outset of the show, to dispel all the rumours, and piss off the crowd <br />
<br />
Woody nips around in blue jeans and musketeer shirt like a soccer sub who’s just been asked to warm up for an FA Cup Final appearance. He sings, predictably, the whole of Gimme Some Neck – the morbid infection of ‘Buried Alive’, ‘FUG Her’, ‘Lost And Lonely’, the unadulterated optimism of ‘Worry No More’ and ‘Don’t Worry’, a suitable inscription for Woody’s gravestone. Big cheers. <br />
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<br />
<br />
More cheers for Keith Richards’s two contributions –’Apartment Number Nine’ and ‘Let’s Go Steady’. Biggest cheers for ‘Honky Tonk Women’ and ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’. Chicago becomes their kind of town. I even see a guy dancing with his wife. <br />
<br />
A few hours later I follow the mesmerising scent of music and marijuana through a Milwaukee wood in the dark to a large timber building set in the grounds of the Playboy Country Club. The music, folded into the immobile shadows on the window, is vaguely familiar. I wander up and peer through the glass. The New Barbarians are huddled around an elaborate hi-fi, listening to a tape of their Chicago show like gaunt-faced pathologists slicing up a fresh cadaver. <br />
<br />
The post-mortem is complete. All’s well in Wood’s wood. <br />
<br />
‘The deciding factor to actually make the album came during the Some Girls sessions with the Stones in Paris,’ says Ronnie. <br />
<br />
He sits cross-legged on a huge red leather sofa in a room off the main lounge where the others are gathered. Blonde London model girlfriend Jo Howard serves the drinks, JD on ice. They’ve been living together − that’s Ron and Jo, not Ron and Jack − in California since Ronnie and his wife Chrissie split and have a ten-month-old daughter, Leah. <br />
<br />
‘In between takes, Charlie, Bill and me mucked around with some of my songs and Bill turned round and said, "Do you realize how quickly you could go through these?" And he was right. I laid down all the tracks in just ten days. And so my first solo album in four years was recorded. <br />
<br />
‘The album and tour have certainly given me a new lease of life. Getting such a bunch of guys together like that was absolutely amazing. Despite all the different managers and record companies involved the project proved to be no trouble at all. Not one single trauma. And what was so flattering was the way they all insisted on playing my songs alone. When the tour started in Toronto, I tended to let the weight fall on their shoulders because I knew they could handle it better than me. But now I understand how to approach the whole thing. It ain’t as crazy as I originally thought.’ <br />
<br />
Ronnie’s career with the Stones started back in 1976 after the demise of the Faces. His face popped up on the cover of the Black and Blue album, which confirmed he was already a member. Many argue that he hauled them out of an artistic quagmire and gave them the shot in the arm they desperately needed. <br />
<br />
‘I’ve always felt well at home in the Stones. After all, they always were my favourite band … always. I’ve been able to do my own thing in the band. Mick and Keith will always listen to a song I’ve written which I think might be suitable for the band. <br />
<br />
‘So many people think the Stones’ approach to everything is simple and direct. What they don’t realise is in that simplicity there are so many subtleties that you’ve got to be on top all the time otherwise you’re bound to get caught. It’s not that I’ve helped to liven the Stones up – it’s that they’ve helped to liven me up. There’s such a tremendous democratic framework within the band. Everyone is encouraged to do what they want.’ <br />
<br />
How did they react to him doing a solo album? <br />
<br />
‘They were great,’ he says, a fag in his mouth, a glass of bourbon in his hand, a one-way ticket to cloud nine in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘It’s really funny. Every time Mick sees me with a fag in my mouth he rushes up and grabs it, saying I’ll ruin my voice if I don’t stop smoking. He also says I should cut down on the ol’ Jack Daniel’s … but what can a poor boy do? <br />
<br />
‘Besides, Mick would love to do a solo album himself – he’s definitely got it in him – and he’s also got more than enough material. And Keith is getting closer and closer to doing just that. He’s written some incredible stuff recently.’ <br />
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<br />
How is Ronnie coping with being a front man for a change? <br />
<br />
‘Now that took some working out. See, when you’ve been playing with people like Mick and Rod for years you tend to let them take the limelight. Hell, they’re naturals so they’re gonna take it anyway. But now I’m gradually coming to terms with it myself. I now know all the things they go through – and it’s real hard.’ <br />
<br />
Aha, an ego is born. <br />
<br />
‘Nah, I’m no egotist. I’ve lived with too many to be one. I guess that’s why I like to show off a lot on stage – I know it don’t mean anything. I could have done solo tours years ago but by now my force would’ve been spent and I’d just be existing. I’ve done it in the right way. All I’ve ever wanted to do is give value for money -- giving just me is self-indulgent. That’s why it’s great to be surrounded by guys who are incredible talents in their own right. It takes you down a peg or two and you’ve got to come back smiling. I think the tour affected everyone like that. Keith was giving things that people could never imagine. And I broke my balls to get it right.’ <br />
<br />
Why does he think he’s been dubbed rock’s Mr Nice Guy? <br />
<br />
‘Dunno. Maybe it’s ’cos I don’t bullshit unless it’s absolutely necessary. A lot of people I play with happen to be really famous and it can sound very flash when you talk about them. But it’s just the same as anyone talking about their mates. It’s perfectly natural. Like the other night Bob Dylan popped around my house for tea. It was on the eve of the US tour and he was checking up on me. He wasn’t sure whether I’d go through with it. <br />
<br />
‘I love living on the West Coast. I like to stick my roots down wherever I am. My family lived in the same house for over twenty years, and when we moved it was just a hundred and fifty yards down the road.’ <br />
<br />
He attended Ealing Art College and is an accomplished artist − he did all the artwork on his album, which includes a brilliant self-portrait. Why didn’t he bring the album out much earlier, when it had been knocking around for such a long time? <br />
<br />
I didn’t want it to surface until it felt right. I could never have done all this eighteen months ago. It takes a certain approach – it helps if you’re a little crazy – and right now I can enjoy it. I believe that’s the key to lasting in this business. The Stones’ longevity is down to that – approaching the right thing in the right way at the right time. That, plus the way they live. It’s always been five guys and five women who are very close at all times.’ <br />
<br />
Moot point. <br />
<br />
‘They’ve learned to search out what’s gonna be the next fashion and ride with it – very often they set the fashion themselves. And they’ve also got the ability to suss out anyone who’s gonna try and put the spoke in. <br />
<br />
‘Would you like to meet Keith?’ he suddenly asks. <br />
<br />
What the fuck do you think? ‘Er, yes, that would be nice.’ <br />
<br />
‘Keith’s a bit nervous about hanging with journalists after that bust in Toronto. But I don’t think we’ll have any problem with you.’ <br />
<br />
I guess I’m just that kind of guy. I follow Ron through to the lounge where Keith Richards, Ian McLagan, Kenney Jones, Stanley Clarke, Bobby Keys and Ziggy Modeliste are seated on chairs or the shag-pile carpet drinking Jack Daniel’s, laughing, being rock stars, smoking cigars. <br />
<br />
The smell of dope is intoxicating and that night I snort the best coke this side of Colombia. The Jack Daniel’s is premium and the grass is, well, sublime. I kinda pity people like Keith Richards. Nights such as these are customary for rock gods, like watching Coronation Street. For me, it’s like watching Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. <br />
<br />
When the sun rises it’s time to go… <br />
</span><br /></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: Malcolm McLaren <br />
</span><br /></b><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span><br /></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span><br /></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-37517413064313041952014-06-09T23:05:00.002+01:002014-06-09T23:05:42.832+01:00<b><span style="font-size: large;">May 1979 <br />
</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">White dopes on punk <br />
<br />
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<br /></span><br /></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Back in New York and I find myself asking the age-old question: what do you want from life? <br />
<br />
To watch a meretricious show pumped full of more costume changes than Liberace had in his entire career. <br />
<br />
To enjoy a showroom dummy spectacle as transient as it’s torrid? <br />
<br />
To whistle one song on the way home and wake up the next morning totally devoid of musical memory, just the routines, and the high heels, and the big tits, and the chainsaw, and the bondage? <br />
<br />
Or. . . <br />
<br />
Do ya wanna see some kick-ass rock ’n’ roll with the occasional embellishment to accentuate rather than drown? <br />
<br />
Me, I’d rather suck my choc ice while watching the TV Tubes! <br />
<br />
Yes, by special request, brought to you at great expense (but not nearly so much as last time -- or the time before that), we have the meticulous, the desultory, the alarming, Tubes. <br />
<br />
The San Franciscan sluggers with the neat line in swashbuckle have now become neophytes in the land of three-minute rock. The Tubes ain’t so gross any more. Sure, it was fun while it lasted but they eventually discovered there are more important things to attend to – like making music without the blinding flash of techno-theatre, and like making money. So they’ve stripped the rococo trimmings from their show. <br />
<br />
Now, how do I know this? After all, they don’t play their first show of a sell-out British tour until this Friday. <br />
<br />
Come with me now to the backstage area of the Palladium in New York City where Fee Waybill pulls me to one side. ‘Hey, do you know a writer called Tim Lott?’ <br />
<br />
‘Not personally,’ I lie. ‘Why?’ <br />
<br />
‘Well,’ he says, pounding his right fist onto his left palm, ‘if I ever meet him again I won’t be responsible for my actions.’ <br />
<br />
‘Why?’ Fee’s a big guy. He looks a little menacing. <br />
<br />
‘Because when he did a review of one of our concerts he kept talking about the size of my nose. That’s fucking wrong, man. It’s not fucking relevant. So, you don’t know him?’ <br />
<br />
‘No.’ My nose nearly grows a foot. Shit, I hope he doesn’t find out in the next two days. Could be a little awkward. Gee, these guys are touchy. <br />
<br />
Fee is brimful of nervous energy while watching Squeeze, who are supporting The Tubes, win over yet another bunch of fastidious Yanks. ‘Great band, huh? I love ’em.’ The feeling, I later discover, is mutual. ‘Hope you like our show,’ he says, continuing to boogie to ‘Take Me I’m Yours’. <br />
<br />
In the Tubes’ dressing room the rest of the band limber up. Drummer Prairie Prince does a tricky little two-step twinkle around the floor, which percussionist Mingo Lewis paces conservatively. Tension around the huge plastic bins packed full of ice and cans of beer. <br />
<br />
Out front, that unmistakable US rock-show smell pervades the air – grass. As pungent as fish and chips, as thick as cold porridge. The audience is curious. They’ve obviously heard of the Tubes’ metamorphosis. Would they still cut it in that old cynical, spectacular style? Or would they now simply be another bunch of rock ’n’ roll rookies looking for somewhere to hang their burnt-out blues? <br />
<br />
‘Would you please welcome from San Francisco . . . THE TOOBS!’ <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
The show spells the end of Fee’s alter-ego, Quay Lude, who is finally banished to that great exposed clit in the sky. Oh, it’s still over the top, but the big bucks are missing. The technoflash may have gone, but the rock has really set in complete with a Who encore − ‘Baba O’Reilly’ and ‘The Kids Are Alright’. <br />
<br />
The show’s an unqualified, unequivocal, underarm success. <br />
<br />
Cecil B. DeMille has been replaced by John Cassavetes, but it’s a change that had to happen. <br />
<br />
And that’s the point Fee makes in the Tubes’ tour bus the next day on the road to Providence, Rhode Island, the submarine capital of the world. ‘When we started this US tour we were really apprehensive of blowing it in front of the fans who only came to see the Tubes for their theatre as opposed to their music,’ he says -- he always looks so innocent with those big eyes and curly hair. ‘Granted, we amassed an impressive following because of that – but that wasn’t necessarily a following of record-buying fans. Christ, they’d see our show, then go home and build up their movie systems, not buy our albums. <br />
<br />
‘We’d been doing the show for four years and we were flat broke. Oh, sure, we’d make thousands of dollars on the road – but that was all spent on the show and providing for thirty people in hotels every fucking night. I got fed up with going home after a tour and having to borrow money from friends. I was killing myself. It was time to change. We had to become the new Tubes. We’d created a monster that just kept getting fatter. We had to kill it. <br />
<br />
‘But it’s a lot more than just economics. We’re trying to make a career out of this business. Listen, five years down the line I don’t want to end up playing in a Bonzo Dog Band. They went on for years – lots of people know their routines, but how many remember their songs?’ <br />
<br />
Not the urban spaceman, baby, that’s for sure. <br />
<br />
‘We decided we had to make people listen to the music, not just get off on the million dancing girls, the elaborate sets and the costumes. We wanted to become a kick-ass rock ’n’ roll band. The music had been suffering. Weak songs were being reinforced with extreme visuals. It got to be such a headache, thinking of different scenes to match the songs. I was spending more time on changing my costumes than actually singing.’ <br />
<br />
The initial dates on the tour were, as Fee put it, ‘murder’. <br />
<br />
‘I was dressed in little kid’s clothes, which was supposed to signify how I was brought up on TV and never left the set. But unfortunately nobody understood it. So there we were, changing the format of the show after two concerts.’ <br />
<br />
That night in Providence, the Tubes play an ice-hockey stadium this time without the Who encore because the Rhode Island doss-heads thought ‘White Punks’ was the final song and left. <br />
<br />
Silly puckers. <br />
<br />
(Fee left the Tubes in 1985 but rejoined eight years later to tour Europe and release a few, largely unsuccessful, albums. Vince Welnick committed suicide in 2006 and the following year the remaining members of the Tubes reunited in Phoenix for their induction into the Arizona Music and Entertainment Hall of Fame. The band are currently on a US tour). <br />
<br />
Within five minutes of my getting back home to London the phone rings. It’s Tim. ‘Can you do a phoner for me? I’m double-booked with Iggy Pop.’ <br />
<br />
Who is it? <br />
<br />
‘Your favourite, Billie Jo Spears.’ <br />
<br />
Throw that blanket on the ground, I think I’m gonna be sick … <br />
<br />
By the way, Fee Waybill sends his love. Click. <br />
<br />
<br />
</span><br /></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: Ronnie Wood in Chicago <br />
</span><br /></b><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span><br /></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span><br /></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <br />
</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-85917992922678363932014-06-03T19:32:00.003+01:002014-06-03T19:34:14.366+01:00<b><span style="font-size: large;">May 1979 <br />
</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Rush hour <br />
<br />
</span></b><br />
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<br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">I arrive at the Newcastle hotel where Rush are hanging out before their second-night concert at the City Hall. <br />
<br />
Outside there are a dozen fans jumping in front of anything on wheels to catch a glimpse of the Canadian capers. They’ve been on ice all day − school’s out and this is dole-queue rock, sonny. This is the punter’s paradise. This is what mitigates their unconditional surrender to the inevitable grey. This is the early pay cheque, the visit to the movies, the undignified grope in the back row. <br />
<br />
Rush and their ilk tamper with their dreams. Epic allusions, day excursions to Parnassus (where the nuts come from), huge diaphanous characters battling for Good in a galaxy far, far away. <br />
<br />
Rush’s music is an extravagant, electronic enema, complex and facile, gross but with the occasional delectable nuance. <br />
<br />
One critic recently condemned the whole operation (and it is nothing less) as fascist. But there’s no attempt to indoctrinate. Rush are simply true purveyors of pomp-and-circumstance heavy metal. Three-piece suites are their forte: some may be a little chewy and difficult to digest, but their music is a glorious overkill. In fact, it’s a two-hour maim. <br />
<br />
Alex Lifeson (‘Hey, isn’t that Schencker?’ asks the air steward, peering over my shoulder as I read a Rush review on the flight from Heathrow to Newcastle), with the glittering Gibson solos, Geddy Lee of the stoned-choirboy voice and multifarious moogs, and drummer Neil Peart. <br />
<br />
Neil has just ordered a steak, with sherry trifle to follow, in the hotel restaurant a few hours before the concert. ‘It’s really difficult to get trifles on the other side of the Atlantic.’ <br />
<br />
He’s Rush’s lyricist and was instrumental in changing the band’s direction from a bottom-of-the-heap HM a-go-go band to top-flight spectacle when he joined four years ago. Neil, with the Edwardian moustache and Georgian barnet, came to London from Canada in the early seventies to seek fame and fortune as a musician. After bumming around with a few bands he eventually ended up selling souvenirs in Carnaby Street. <br />
<br />
His rock-star ambitions thwarted, Neil returned to Canada and started work with his father, a farm-equipment dealer. He was promoted to parts manager, selling the odd tractor track or combine cog and looked assured of a fairly affluent life in the agricultural world. It was around this time he was approached by Alex and Geddy who were on the lookout for a drummer after the departure of original percussionist John Rutsey. <br />
<br />
There then followed a series of albums that showcased Peart’s predilection for the myth, the fantasy, the sci-fi scenario, the magic. <br />
<br />
They toured Britain early last year to a tumultuous reception. Their last two albums − </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">A Farewell To Kings </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">and </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Hemispheres </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">have now gone silver over here and the current tour sold out weeks in advance. Yet their songs have been dismissed as immature and pretentious. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Neil. ‘I’ve matured a great deal during my association with Rush and managed to maintain my integrity. I’ve come to understand a whole new aspect of life which I’ve never been able to articulate before.’ <br />
<br />
Hence the ‘message’ accusations. <br />
<br />
‘Okay, maybe there are messages in the songs. I just write about anything that seems important to me. If I have a "pure" idea to express I’ll put it over in grand style to blend in with the structure of the whole thing and to illustrate my point. The songs are specifically aimed at people my own age, twenty-six, and younger.’ <br />
<br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
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<br />
Another accusation leveled at Rush is that their songs praise capitalism. <br />
<br />
‘To make it clear once and for all, I believe totally in personal freedom. As long as I have the choice I don’t care. I went through the stage when I was interested in politics but now I’m interested in other, more spiritual, things. Our integrity is not for sale, our art is. It costs us a lot − both financially and personally − to produce our music and we deserve a just reward. We are, first and foremost, a hard rock band − and the cornerstone of all hard rock is excitement.’ <br />
<br />
Neil in a nutshell: he’d like to write a novel if he ever gets the time. He reads voraciously, anything from Agatha Christie to Plato. The Who were the first band he ever really got into. He has a sweetheart and a child back home and he visits them every fourth week during the tour. He never drinks before a gig and smiles when he talks about anything he considers important. <br />
<br />
Then I get this headache. <br />
<br />
It thumps through the journey to the Newcastle City Hall of the crimson kings, does a Chinese burn on my brain during the support, devours rational thought during Rush’s two-hour set, and totally blinds me in the </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">après</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">-gig Rush dressing room. As I crunch a clutch of Anadin, I try to convince Geddy Lee that it wasn’t their music that caused it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Rush leave early and decide to drive through the night to the next concert in Glasgow. <br />
<br />
I stagger back to the hotel. No dreams for me that night. No Apollo. No Dionysus. No Xanadu. No mighty oaks or shimmering palaces. <br />
<br />
Just a world of pain. <br />
<br />
(Rush went from strength to strength in the eighties and nineties but then hit a brick wall in 1997 when Neil’s daughter Selena was killed in a car accident and his wife Jacqueline died of cancer ten months later. Neil took off on a motorbike, rode across America and clocked up 55,000 miles. He remarried in 2000 and the band released a new album, </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Vapor Trails</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">, in 2002. The album </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Snakes & Arrows </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">was released in 2007 and sold 100,000 copies in its first week. The band also embarked on an extensive world tour to promote it. Their last studio album was Clockwork Angels released in 2012. A June 8, 2013 show the band played at the Sweden Rock Festival was their first festival appearance in thirty years. To date, Rush have sold over 40 million records.) </span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: The Tubes in New York <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
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</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-7190233974949110262014-05-20T00:29:00.004+01:002014-05-20T02:45:41.732+01:00<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Boy About Motown <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Motown is now a ghost town. It curled up and died along with my youth a long time ago when the days I could dance without feeling discomfited came to an end. <br />
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Not only was it the sound of my dancing youth, it was also, as Gary Kemp once succinctly put it, the sound of my soul. When the Four Tops descended from heaven in Tottenham Royal or Streatham Locarno or The Lyceum, well sugar pie honey bunch, I couldn’t help myself. I’d steam onto the dance floor fuelled by an ocean of Double Diamond – it really did work wonders – and start to groove in the hope of getting entangled in a web of sticky-sweet stares spun by creamy girls. <br />
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When they slowed things down, you were on cloud nine in dream time with your arms around a shapely stranger hoping upon hope she’d let you in… ‘I'm gonna use every trick in the book, I'll try my best to get you hooked. Oh baby…’ <br />
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And while each slice of three minute Motown vinyl caressed the gleaming threads of my three piece mohair suit, everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. <br />
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When the dancehalls closed for the night and the only sound was traffic and the second hand emotions of your mates as you walked home, your soul would still be dancing to that Detroit beat. Motown, mohair, magic. <br />
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The lyrics were as infectious as the melodies. Through a funky, speeded-up osmosis (with the emphasis on speed – the pills gave you room to move on the dance floor), they infiltrated your mind. I knew the words to I Heard It Through The Grapevine after just two hearings. Baby Love only required one spin on the turntable and I remembered all its cutie pie sentiments, word for word. <br />
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We danced to Motown, snogged to Motown, ate, drove, shagged and fell asleep to Motown. Above all we listened to Motown, and heard, really heard, every glorious, impassioned moment. <br />
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The melody lingers on in a new exhibition that’s just opened at the fabulous Proud Gallery in Camden – a unique photographic homage that chronicles the rise of Tamla Motown with rare and unseen photographs of the visit to these shores of artists in 1964 and in 1965 when they played their first British concert tour and when Stevie Wonder had a Little prefix. <br />
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It charts the UK history of the label throughout the 60s and 70s, the classic years, the Berry Gordy, Holland-Dozier Holland, Norman Whitfield years when artists like Smokey Robinson, Temptations, Martha Reeves, The Supremes and The Jacksons were never out of the UK charts. All the photos on display were taken by EMI photographers at the time. <br />
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These were the sweet days, when songs rolled off the production line like the cars once did in Detroit. When Stevie Wonder ditched his cherie amour for dreadlocks and the sublime sophistication of ‘Sunshine Of My Life’ and the Isley Brothers left the label to become hippies. <br />
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After Motown finally moved lock, stock and smokin’ barrel from Detroit to Los Angeles, the hot sun slowly dried out that fecund, motor city magic and things were never the same again, Lionel Richie or no Lionel Richie. <br />
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The ‘end’ wall of the exhibition is reserved for perhaps the brightest Motown star of them all. Just think of that gorgeous, searching sax intro leading you to the sweetest vocals this side of heaven… ‘Mother mother, there’s too many of you crying…’ <br />
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Marvin Gaye was always the grown-up in the Motown stable, like a sexier, despairing Smokey Robinson – mad, bad and dangerous to know, the voice of an angel with a dark secret. The photos were taken in London during visits in 1980 and ’81 just a few years before he was shot dead by his father. It’s a fitting finale. <br />
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The Gallery did us Proud at the exhibition preview when Martha Reeves and The Vandellas hit the stage for a blistering set that included their three big hits, ‘Heatwave’, ‘Jimmy Mack’ and, of course, ‘Dancing In The Street’ which this year celebrates its 50th<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">anniversary. Scary. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Martha, at 72, ain’t no spring chicken but fuck me, she could’ve danced all night in that tight gold dress that certainly accentuated her positives, and still have begged for more. Rousing springs to mind, not just the performance but for the memories she brought back to life. It felt like this was the only place you could possibly want to be at that moment and that doesn’t happen very often. </span></span><br />
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When I got home, I dug out my old copy of Motown Chartbusters Volume 3, the one with the shiny silver cover released in November 1969. How’s this for a track listing: <br />
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1. I Heard It Through The Grapevine - Marvin Gaye <br />
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2. I'm Gonna Make You Love Me - Diana Ross & The Supremes And The Temptations <br />
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3. My Cherie Amour - Stevie Wonder <br />
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4. This Old Heart Of Mine (Is Weak For You) - The Isley Brothers <br />
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5. I'll Pick A Rose For My Rose - Marv Johnson <br />
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6. No Matter What Sign You Are - Diana Ross & The Supremes <br />
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7. I'm in a Different World - The Four Tops <br />
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8. Dancing In The Street - Martha Reeves & The Vandellas <br />
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9. For Once In My Life - Stevie Wonder <br />
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10. You're All I Need To Get By - Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell <br />
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11. Get Ready - The Temptations <br />
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12. Stop Her On The Sight (S.O.S) - Edwin Starr <br />
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13. Love Child - Diana Ross & The Supremes <br />
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14. Behind a Painted Smile - The Isley Brothers <br />
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Hardly a dud amongst them. Yet there was only one song in that smorgasbord of classics that got to No. 1 in the UK. Any idea? Have to hurry you…’S’right, ‘Grapevine’. <br />
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‘Listening to Marvin all night long <br />
This is the sound of my soul…’ <br />
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Proud Galleries, in collaboration with EMI, Bravado and Universal Music, present Classic Motown – The Invasion Begins <br />
The exhibition runs from 14th May – 13th July 2014, Monday to Sunday: 11am – 5pm. Free entry. <br />
Address: The Horse Hospital, Stables Market, Chalk Farm Road. London NW1 8AH <br />
<a href="http://www.proud.co.uk/">www.proud.co.uk</a> <br />
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Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
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</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-25864999251703545652014-05-11T17:52:00.000+01:002014-05-11T17:57:13.583+01:00<b><span style="font-size: large;">April 1979 <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Somewhere Over The Rainbow (Part 2) <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">As I walk home from the Rainbow that night it suddenly dawns on me that this could be my biggest break – switching from observer to controller. A pop promoter for the biggest band in the world. Power, dosh, fame. Everything I’d always wanted, well, since meeting Dina. This was my destiny and I was going to share it with someone who beat the shit out of me when I was five. <br />
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I ring Alan Edwards the next morning to try to arrange the meeting. Debbie Harry and Chris Stein would be arriving in London in a few weeks and he’d see what he could do. He sounds sceptical but eventually manages to set up a meeting at their hotel, the Montcalm in the West End. Alan always comes through: it’s the secret of his success. <br />
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It’s an unusually warm Sunday morning in April. The meeting is arranged for noon and Frank picks me up in a smart S-reg something. <br />
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This definitely feels right. I lean back in the leather seat and decide I’ve finally arrived. <br />
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Frank and I breeze into the foyer and glide up to the reception desk. <br />
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‘Room 221,’ I say, in a voice brimming with such confidence it even surprises me. <br />
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The clerk dials the room. ‘They’ll ring back in a few minutes,’ she says, as she replaces the receiver. <br />
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We turn to find a seat and bump into Frank Infante from the band. <br />
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‘Hi, Frank,’ I say, like he’s my long-lost brother. <br />
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He hesitates. ‘Oh, yeah, hi.’ I’m used to the pretty vacant look from new-wave bands. A flicker of recognition crosses his eyes. ‘Right, yeah. The other guys are in there having breakfast,’ he says, indicating the dining room. <br />
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‘Great, I’ll catch you after I’ve seen Debbie and Chris,’ I say, still confident, still surprised. <br />
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‘Okay.’ He shuffles off. <br />
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The phone on the desk rings. ‘You can go up now,’ says the clerk. <br />
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Frank is wearing a beige suit and brown tie. He looks the part. I’m in a jacket and jeans. I think we make a cool pair, like maybe Sinatra and Martin or Starsky and Hutch. <br />
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Chris Stein opens the door. He looks like he’s been up all night. <br />
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‘Come through. Debbie will be right in.’ <br />
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He leads us into an impressive living room and Frank and I sit down on the couch. Debbie walks in. She’s wearing a plain white bathrobe and no makeup. She’s the biggest pop star in Britain and walks in loveliness like the night across pubescent souls starved of glamour in the aftermath of punk. <br />
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But at noon on that particular Sunday, she looks like death warmed-up. <br />
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‘So what’s this all about?’ Chris asks. <br />
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Frank hits the gas. ‘I want Blondie to top the bill at a massive one-day pop extravaganza I’m promoting at Stamford Bridge, the home of Chelsea Football Club. Here’s the deal. We’ll fly the band over on Concorde . . .’ I suddenly feel very cool when he says, ‘We’ll’. Chris and Debbie seem to like the supersonic words he’s speaking. They start to listen more intently. This is going well. <br />
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‘Then we’ll---’ <br />
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The phone rings. <br />
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‘Excuse me just a moment,’ says Chris. <br />
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Frank starts to make small-talk with Debbie as Chris picks up the phone. <br />
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‘He’s the guy who did what?’ We all turn and look at Chris. He stares at me wide-eyed. After a few moments without saying another word he hangs up. <br />
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‘That was Clem.’ He’s talking only to me. ‘He says you’re the guy who interviewed them in New York a few months back. They didn’t like what you wrote about them, man. I haven’t read it but I know they were pretty pissed. They’re sending a couple of guys up to throw you out.’ <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">He turns to Debbie. ‘Shit, I don’t know how these guys were allowed up here in the first place. Who arranged this?'</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">This Montcalm moment is a doozie. Why me? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘Er, I’m sorry about this, Frank,’ I say, still in a state of apoplexy and frantically trying to remember what I’d actually written that had caused such consternation. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘Don’t worry.’ He’s taking it nobly. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">There’s a loud knock at the door. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">I fear the worst. Frank and I had fought each other as kids − now we’re united against a common foe: Blondie bouncers. </span></span><br />
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Chris opens the door. There’s an exchange of words in the hallway. </span></span><br />
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He comes back into the room and says the guys outside want a word with me. <br />
<br />
I go out. Frank, gratifyingly, watches my back. <br />
<br />
A big guy in a black jacket, with the word `Security’ emblazoned across the back in large letters the colour of blood, is waiting. His colleague, similarly attired, stands a few feet away. <br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘Is that guy you’re with Frank Warren?’ asks the first guy like it was Mick Jagger or Dustin Hoffman. Shit, Frank from my flats was a media celebrity. The boxing shows at the Rainbow were proving to be his stepping stones to fame. He really has caught the public’s imagination <br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">I try to say, ‘Yes,’ like Al Pacino, but it comes out sounding more like John Inman. <br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘I thought so,’ says the guy. ‘Look, we’ve just been asked by the band to throw you out but I don’t want any trouble with you or Mr Warren. I’ve seen you around at concerts and I know <br />you’re kosher. I don’t know what it was you wrote about those guys but they’re pretty fucked-off. I’ll leave it up to you but I think, honestly, it would be better if you left.’ <br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">He’s a straight-up guy and he’s marking my card. And then the two of them turn around and walk away, though I think they were tempted to ask for Frank’s autograph. <br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">At that moment I realise I’d never be able to pin Frank’s arms to the ground ever again. He’s a well-respected man with more influence than I could ever have imagined. I, on the other hand, am a schmuck who still doesn’t know what I’d written that had got them all so pissed. <br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘When we sort this shit out I’ll get in touch,’ says Chris. Frank and I both know we’d never set eyes on him again. Or each other come to that. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘What the hell did you write?’ Frank asks, as we walk through the foyer and out into the spring sunshine. We both laugh about it on the way home but we know we’re never going make it as Barnum and Bailey. This was my last tango in Paris. From now on I have to set my sights lower. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Much lower. <br />
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(What the hell I wrote can be found on an earlier blog. Really sorry about that Frank. What can I say? I was a klutz with a vindictive streak. I actually did meet up with Frank over twenty years later. I heard that his mother had passed away. She was an absolute gem, always a smile on her face, always a kind word on her lips. I felt I had to write a letter of condolence to Frank and he replied with a wonderful handwritten letter awash with memories. <br />
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We met for lunch, two Finsbury boys with a boxful of chat, and he invited me and my sons Paul and Andrew, who were 16 at the time, to see Herbie Hide at the London Arena. He was fighting some relative unknown called Vitali Klitschko. My boys were well impressed when we were ushered into the up front and personal ringside seats and even more impressed by the Goliath proportions of the Ukrainian. The guy was a mountain and Herbie went down in the second round. It was a wonder he lasted that long. <br />
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After the show, I introduced the boys to Frank who chatted to them for a while. <br />
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‘I tell you something,’ he said to them as a parting shot, ‘your dad and I had better fights than that one tonight when we were kids…’ <br />
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When I sent Frank this article, he invited me over the Arsenal as a guest in his box for the last home game of the season against West Bromwich Albion last Sunday. We reminisced about the old days and I asked him if the piece I wrote about him was okay to use. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s fine, except for one thing. It wasn’t Monopoly I tipped up. It was Buccaneer…’ What a true gent). <br />
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</span></span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: Rush in Newcastle <br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY <br />
<br />
www.facebook.com/wetdreamsdrylives </span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-76288273865377577952014-05-10T13:26:00.001+01:002014-05-10T17:28:32.570+01:00<b><span style="font-size: large;">April 1979 <br />
</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Somewhere Over The Rainbow (Part 1)<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">My first, vivid, memory of Frank Warren – or Frankie, as he was known back in the day − was getting a right-hander from him outside my flat when we were both five years old. It was my first fight. <br />
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It felt more comfortable getting punched close to my front door: I figured if the fight was going against me my dad would come out and break it up and, if not, he’d let it roll for a while before stepping in. He came out double quick that day. I’d bloodied Frank’s nose but he kicked the shit out of me. My mum gave him a banana and we shook hands, but from then on we were always on opposite sides. He ran with the enemy. <br />
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I lived on the ground floor of Bevin Court near King’s Cross and he lived up in the sky on the seventh. He had a lovely mum but he was always such a little bastard – forgive me, Frank. He’d throw other kids’ toys down the rubbish chute, tip up and ruin games of Monopoly that we often played in the stairwells of the flats, and generally cause havoc. He always seemed to be itching for a fight. <br />
<br />
He was of slight build, a little below average in those below-average days, but he could punch well above his weight. He was kinda dangerous and I kinda liked that. I had one more fight with Frank. It was in the street that led down to the flats. I guess we were about nine. He’d hardly grown out of his five-year-old shell but I was rapidly turning into a tall, tubby kid. I towered over him and it was a complete mismatch. I knew it but Frank didn’t, and he steamed in like a raging bull and really hurt me. After a fierce struggle, my blubber managed to pin him to the ground and I placed both my knees on his outstretched arms. <br />
<br />
We stayed like that for seconds, minutes, who knows? My locker no longer contains such secrets. The older boys who had instigated the fight got bored and started wandering off. It must’ve been hurting Frank because my knees were really aching. I think we both wanted to cry but our hearts wouldn’t let us. It was the way we were. And then I started to feel deeply ashamed. I didn’t want to hurt this person, I grew up with him for fucksake. What was the point of this? </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Whack! ‘You bully. Get off him.’ </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">An old woman hit me with her umbrella and pushed me over. ‘You’re twice as big as him, you bully,’ and she whacked me again. I got up quick and ran as fast as my tubby body <br />
<br />
would let me. I knew what Frank was capable of; I knew what all of us on that estate were capable of and, sure enough, a brick came heading my way. Luckily, his arms must’ve still been numb because I wasn’t caught by the shrapnel as it landed and for a big, fat kid that was a result. <br />
<br />
‘You bully.’ I’ve been called a lot of things in my life but those words will always hurt the most. ‘You bully.’ Me? <br />
<br />
That was the last ‘straightener’ I ever had. I didn’t like the look of someone’s face contorted with a pain that I was inflicting, someone that I actually, perversely, liked. I also hated getting hurt. But I hated most being goaded by older boys who wanted to see a fight. We were a pair of prize suckers. Neither of us fell for that again. <br />
<br />
We were all beasts in baseball boots, but some of us were cleverer than others. Frank passed his eleven-plus – hardly anyone from our area did that − much to the surprise of one particular parent who actually stopped me in the street and said, ‘Can you believe it?’ <br />
<br />
I could. <br />
<br />
By then Frank’s family had moved to another estate, Priory Green, but he was still a frequent visitor to our shores, organising football matches between neighbouring estates on concrete playgrounds with walls for goals. He didn’t play, he organised. He made it happen. When you can do that at ten, the eleven-plus is a stroll in the park. <br />
<br />
It was patently clear that the guy had brains. He shed the ‘ie’ from the end of his name, ducked and dived like we all did and became very wise very quickly, like some of us did. I’d see Frank around and we’d chat and it was easy, comfortable. He was flash, but in that good, unintentional way. Natural flash. Organic flash. And every time I bumped into him he’d grown appreciably taller, nicer, genuinely interested in what I was doing. As his reputation grew, I felt a sense of pride that a bloke from my flats could achieve worldwide fame doing something that really did come naturally. <br />
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Our paths cross on several occasions in 1979, one of which involves probably the most embarrassing moment of my life … <br />
<br />
Frank is starting to make a name for himself as an unlicensed boxing promoter of mainly overweight fighters who beat up each other at the Rainbow in Finsbury Park. It’s popular entertainment and the media love slagging it off <br />
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I bump into him in Chapel Market and he hands me a pair of tickets for one of the shows. I take Tim (Lott) and I think he’s surprised at the sheer number of spivs in suits that pack out the venue. The fights are more like boxing matches than I’d thought they’d be. Gloves, a ring, rounds, referee, shit, it’s boxing. There are a few decent contests but no one suffers any really bad injuries. It’s boxing, it’s local, it’s a good night out. <br /><br />When I meet Frank after the show, he’s backstage sitting at a desk behind a mountain of cash because it’s tickets in advance or at the door and loads of people leave it until the last minute to go. It’s all legit and includes the fighters’ purses, security payments and other staff and receipts are issued. He’s now way out of my league. He’s about to embark on his first trip to the States and I try to impress him with a few feeble stories about my travels. <br />
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‘Do you know Blondie?’ he suddenly asks. <br />
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I’m delighted. Why, only a few weeks ago I’d spent the night on the town in Manhattan with Blondie, snorting and smoking and scheming. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I reply, and proceed to relate my chemical soirée − naturally leaving out the bit about the chemicals. I figure Frank wouldn’t appreciate that, him being a teetotaller an' all. <br />
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‘Look, I’ll be honest,’ he says after listening attentively. ‘I’ve got first refusal on Stamford Bridge for a one-day rock concert this summer and I fancy Blondie to headline. Do you reckon you could set up a meet?’ <br />
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Blondie are the biggest band in town. Their single ‘Heart of Glass’, released in January, has sold more than they could ever imagine. The band’s PR is none other than Alan Edwards. <br />
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‘No sweat, Frankie.’ I instantly regret the ‘ie’ but he doesn’t seem to mind. I tell him I used to be their PR and that they know me really well. <br />
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‘Well, if this comes off we’ll all do well. By the way, do you know the Stranglers too?’ <br />
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Do I know the Stranglers? <br />
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‘Well,’ Frank continues, ‘that Jean-Jacques Burnel would be a fantastic attraction if he stepped into the ring against, say, Lennie McLean. He’s got a bit of a reputation of being shit hot at karate, hasn’t he? It would be perfect.’ <br />
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It’s true. Jean must have every Dan in the book, including Desperate. He was as hard as nails yet supremely intelligent – a beguiling combination. <br />
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A few weeks later I’m sitting having lunch in a burger bar in Hoxton with Frank, ex-middleweight champion of the world Vic Andretti and, yes, Jean Jacques. I originally introduced Frank to Jean at a gig to promote Jean’s debut solo album </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Euroman Cometh </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">and I’d driven JJ to the Ringside bar in Hoxton, which is owned by Vic. The unlicensed boxing shows at the Rainbow were making Frank rich and famous. He was becoming a celebrity and I loved it. Of course, JJ going one on one with Lennie McClean was never going to happen, but it’s good to talk and the idea did receive some media interest. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Besides, there are bigger fish to fry … </span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: large;">Next: Blondie bombshell <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 <br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY <br />
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www.facebook.com/wetdreamsdrylives </span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-29289055193031211202014-03-29T14:41:00.003+00:002014-03-29T14:51:03.474+00:00<b><span style="font-size: large;">April 1979 <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Cats & dogs </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">In a packed Greenwich pub, I share a few pints with Chris Difford. I always seem to talk to members of Squeeze in packed pubs. And you know something? Neatneatneat. Dat’s Squeeze. Sweetsweetsweet. Dat’s Squeeze too. <br />
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They’re the doyens of cartoon-strip situation rock. Each song a two-inch-square excursion into the crazy caper world of big noses, dangling fags, words frozen in blurb balloons and painful domesticity. <br />
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Yet at the same time they’re as slick as a Sassoon quiff, as succinct as a silicon chip. <br />
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Squeeze are artifice with substance. Their dexterity is sometimes quite devastating, sometimes only partially successful due to an occasional lapse into Fantasy Land (a trap they have avoided on the new album Cool For Cats) and very rarely 24-carat oopseroonie. <br />
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But, then, a perfect Squeeze would be intolerable. Imperfection is half the fun. <br />
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A year ago the Deptford dickie-bow merchants clocked in with the hit single, ‘Take Me I’m Yours’ and clocked out with nothing more than a five o’clock shadow and a few strangled dreams. <br />
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A series of indifferent reviews followed, interspersed with downright venomous assaults on the band’s capabilities, too easily dismissed as lightweight and shallow. Then there was an album that made about as much impression as a hooker in an old people’s home. <br />
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‘You learn by your mistakes.’ Chris Difford, lyricist, singer and guitarist, grips his pint like Steve Austin and raises it above the sticky beer mat. ‘After the hit we decided, erroneously in retrospect, to try and break America.’ <br />
<br />
When Squeeze returned from their Stateside sojourn they found themselves back at cartoon strip square one. ‘The press seemed to resent the fact that we’d stayed in America for so long. But I guess the press have never really been on our side. They don’t regard us as being hip enough, a Human League or Gang of Four. That’s fine by me because we see ourselves in the same bracket as the Faces or the Stones. Just good time rock ’n’ roll. When we played Hammersmith with the Feelgoods we got an encore. That meant more to me than anything we’ve done so far. It was more important than a hundred rave reviews in the papers. <br />
<br />
‘Christ, we’re doing seven nights at Hammersmith with the Tubes. If we get an encore every night I think I’ll retire.’ <br />
<br />
And so to the ‘cheeky, schoolboy humour’ (an Anne Nightingale Old Grey Whistle Test special) of ‘Cool For Cats’, which, by the way, was doctored by Top of the Pops. <br />
<br />
‘A few minutes before we were due to appear they told us to substitute "blinkin’" for "bleedin."’ I was absolutely petrified because I really didn’t want to do it. But really the joke’s on them ’cos they haven’t sussed yet there are far worse lines in the song – like "Give the dog a bone", for example.’ <br />
<br />
Chris reckons he got the inspiration for the song while in a boozer, surprise, surprise. ‘In the course of an hour if you’re on your own having a drink your mind will wander over at least five or six different subjects. That’s all "Cats" is, five unrelated images linked by the same phrase. <br />
<br />
‘We just get fed up with the acceptable structures for songs. Squeeze are influenced to some extent by Kraftwerk and there is a happy medium between the average rock sound and "Showroom Dummies".’ <br />
<br />
It’s arguable that they occasionally went overboard with the dummies on the first album, but Cool For Cats is more yer strictly roots beer foam Bensons 33. <br />
<br />
‘It’s a London album. The next one will be European. After all, life is just a railway track – once you’ve been to Scotland you’ve got to come back.’ <br />
<br />
He never said a truer word, although I’d have gone for Newcastle. <br />
<br />
The album is not exactly complimentary to the fairer sex. Chris’s songs are littered with earthy references, so women become ‘it’ or ‘dog’. ‘We call ’em trouts round here. My songs are simply observations and you find men often refer to women in such terms.’ <br />
<br />
One thing young Chris thinks about is his ever-increasing folio of songs – around two thousand at the last count. ‘I’ve sent some to lan Dury because I think he’s the best social writer around. I’d love to team up with him because I’m sure we could become the Gilbert and Sullivan of rock and write a new Threepenny Opera.’ <br />
<br />
Squeeze have got a new drive, a new bassist, a new series of cartoons, a new confidence. They’ve also got a first-class return ticket to Scotland. What more can you ask? <br />
<br />
The Daily Record version of that meeting that I did leaves the Squeeze PR Versa Manos livid. ‘Chris is furious because his words were misconstrued and it shouldn’t have appeared like that.’ I do appear to be rubbing interviewees up the wrong way these days. One in particular hits very hard, causing a landslide that blocks the way to the biggest money-spinning opportunity of my life. <br />
<br />
And all thanks to that Debbie Harry interview nine months ago… <br />
<br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
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<br />
<br />
(Difford and Tilbrook kept the Squeeze box going until 1999 when they both started to pursue solo careers. In 2007 the pair re-formed Squeeze − minus Jools Holland and drummer Gilson Lavis – and toured the US. Live At The Fillmore was issued on iTunes and as a limited-edition white vinyl double-LP in April, 2012. Last year, Glenn Tilbrook <span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">confirmed that Squeeze would be recording between January and March 2014. The songs would feature on an ITV 6 part series based on the autobiography of Going To Sea In A Sieve by Danny Baker. Two songs per week would be featured in each episode). </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: Blondie bombshell </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives that’s free to download for three days from 30 <span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">March to 1</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">April inclusive: </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.wetdreamsdrylives.com/">www.wetdreamsdrylives.com</a> <br />
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</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-28938556792508149022014-03-21T13:39:00.001+00:002014-03-21T13:39:35.464+00:00<b><span style="font-size: large;">March 1979 <br />
</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Quiet please – it’s a Sex Pistol <br />
<br />
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<br /></span><br /></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Hampstead in the rain smells like the countryside, but there’s not much green down Jones Street. <br />
<br />
‘Yeah, come round to me gaff for a chat. I’ve moved up to posh ol’ Hampstead now.’ <br />
<br />
Steve Jones’ phone words, still ringing in my ears during the solemn umbrella trudge from the tube station at midday, provide little solace since they have to compete with an insidious shoe squelch due to one tiny sole slit. <br />
<br />
His newly acquired flat is on the second floor of a large house. I ring the bell for ten minutes on the main front door. No reply. I ring other bells, hoping someone might deign to answer and let me in out of this interminable wet. <br />
<br />
Eventually, a little old woman opens the door. ‘You’re looking for Mr Jones? To tell you the truth, I don’t think he’s in, but you can try.’ She leads me along a passage and up the kind of staircase you usually find in thirties musicals, full of lipsticky smiles and top hats. ‘That’s his door.’ I knock. No reply. ‘Yes, he’s definitely out. This happened the other day when a young girl came to see him. And in this weather too.’ <br />
<br />
I try the flat next door. Another elderly woman answers. ‘Mr Jones? No, I didn’t hear him leave. I’ve been asleep all morning. Besides, he’s such a nice quiet boy I wouldn’t hear him if I was awake.’ <br />
<br />
‘Yes, our Mr Jones is a quiet chap,’ says the other. ‘I live underneath him and the only sound you can sometimes hear is when he plays his records.’ <br />
<br />
I leave this distinctly unPistol-like situation cursing the Milky Bar kid but not before bringing in two pints of milk for the first woman. ‘If I see him I’ll tell him you came. But he’s so quiet you don’t hear him come in.’ <br />
<br />
Can I believe my ears? <br />
<br />
When I get back to the office I ring him. ‘Sorry ’bout that. I had to rush out and there was no way of contacting you. Come round again. I’ll definitely be in.’ <br />
<br />
Take the motor this time. The hole in my shoe just got bigger. <br />
<br />
Inside his flat, I take a close look at him. Steve Jones is beginning to look more and more like one of those photographs in the window of a flash barber shop. His hair is remarkably immaculate and enough to make Tom Jones reach for the curling tongs. <br />
<br />
Two-tone too. His face is chiselled like Burt Lancaster’s and beneath the T-shirt he appears to have a Charles-Atlas-was-here physique. <br />
<br />
All this, coupled with an indifferent attitude of almost swashbuckling proportions, and you have the Adonis-flavoured chewy pop star. He’s as straight as a Yorkie, as interesting as a Topic and as durable as a Kit Kat. <br />
<br />
His flat is epic. The lounge is predominantly black with no furniture except a few large cushions and a portable colour TV in one corner. There’s even a stage, which maybe fulfils a certain need in those long gaps between his public appearances (although it was installed by the previous owner). <br />
<br />
‘The flat cost me fourteen grand,’ says Steve, as he shows me the rest of the property, which includes a bedroom done out entirely in wickerwork that the handyman did himself. ‘And then it cost me another six grand to decorate. It’s all I’ve got in the world now. I ain’t got a penny in the bank. Whenever I need any money I just have to go and sell a guitar or something.’ <br />
<br />
The word ‘unfair’ immediately springs to mind. The Pistols sell as many records now as when Rotten and Vicious called the tune and teased the media. There seems little doubt that, had they survived intact, the band would have transcended reputation and gone on to become the biggest selling ever, in this country anyway. <br />
<br />
The success of ‘Something Else’ and ‘Silly Thing’ (best routine Legs and Co. have done in years) reinforces the fact that there are still plenty of people around who refuse to forget. <br />
<br />
Unless, of course, you don’t remember in the first place. <br />
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<br />
<br />
‘It’s really strange,’ ponders Steve, strumming a guitar he hasn’t sold yet. ‘There’s all these thirteen-year-old punk rockers wandering about who don’t even recognise me. They don’t know how it all started or why. <br />
<br />
‘Everything’s really changed now. There’s no fun any more. People are too straight. All these punk bands are writing songs that mean nothing. The reason rock ’n’ roll lasted so long was because the songs were great. But what’s going down now is rubbish, so the bands don’t last five minutes. Some journalist asked me the other day if the Pistols would ever get back together again and I told him I’d never team up with those sods -- for a laugh, y’know. He printed it, and I tell you something, that was the only true punk thing I’d read in a paper for a long, long time.’ <br />
<br />
Fun is a key word in both Steve’s vocabulary and lifestyle. It’s fun to be a rock star. It’s fun to be dubbed a charismatic cockney Casanova. It’s fun to be young and curly and popular and twenty-three and to frequent bareback skaters’ haunts full of creamy women and write hit songs and appear in movies and--- <br />
<br />
In movies? <br />
<br />
’S right. Steve plays a diligent dick in The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle. You’ve heard the soundtrack, now wait for the movie when you can … <br />
<br />
. . . GASP as Sid jumps out of bed in his underpants. <br />
<br />
. . . SCREAM as he rides a motorbike down the high street − ‘It was a three-wheeler ’cos Sid couldn’t ride a bike.’ <br />
<br />
. . . MOAN as Steve hops into bed with sex queen Mary Millington. <br />
<br />
. . . LAUGH as Steve is then pursued by Mary’s screen husband, piano man Russ Conway. <br />
<br />
. . . THRILL to Steve as a detective on the trail of Malcolm McLaren. <br />
<br />
. . . CRY as they all die. <br />
<br />
‘It’s gonna be really funny although I think Malc is trying to make it all too political. He’s rapidly getting away from the point of what he originally set out to do -- have a bit of fun and make a few bob. <br />
<br />
‘Rotten’s in a few scenes, like the early days of our gigs, but he didn’t want to know about anything else. Irene Handl is also in the film and so’s that Shaft-like DJ who does that ad for K-Tel records on the telly. I hear the distributors are queuing up for it. I only hope none of this legal wrangling will prevent the film from being released.’ <br />
<br />
Steve is convinced that people want to know what it was really like in the good old days of the Pistols. ‘They just want to have a laugh, that’s all.’ <br />
<br />
The movie should also reflect that Steve was, and still is, the original punk beast. <br />
<br />
‘It was me who used to get up to all the bother most of the time. Rotten was always pretty quiet. Funny, I knew he’d slag me off when the band split. Same with Matlock. If he got chucked out, everyone was to blame.’ <br />
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<br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">I’ve no doubt that Steve could, if guided in that particular direction, hurl abuse at Rotten all day quite happily. But Pistols’ in-fighting has become rather monotonous, vapid and documented, to tedious length, in other publications. Let’s just say that Steve preferred Sid. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘He was better than Rotten. I really liked ol' </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Sid. Naturally I felt sad when he topped himself. It’s not every day one of your mates dies. At least he was one rock star who lived up to the "hope I die before I get old" thing. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘Paul and me were gonna go over and do an album with him after he got nicked to raise some money for lawyers’ fees. But the day before we were due to fly out we got the news that he was dead. I was looking forward to working with him again. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘I always knew he wouldn’t last. He couldn’t help but be in bother all the time. Always up to stupid things like fights and getting cut up when he started getting too flash. And what with the drugs … You could never imagine Sid at forty.’ <br />
<br />
Can you imagine Steve Jones at forty? <br />
<br />
‘I suppose I’ll live to be a hundred. I look after myself,’ he says, while chewing into a chocolate bar taken from a bowl of sweets he keeps in the lounge. ‘I don’t go around beating people up. I don’t take any lethal drugs.’ <br />
<br />
It’s true, he does look the picture of health. He’s lost weight over the last months, leaving a pound or two of sunburned fat on Californian beaches. <br />
<br />
‘I had a great time over there. One night I went to a big party where the Runaways were playing and ended up mingling with loads of film stars like Gregory Peck and Zsa Zsa Gabor.’ <br />
<br />
Didn’t I read that he pulled Miss Gabor? ‘Nah -- she’s too old. I’d like to live in America for a while. They treat rock ’n’ roll totally different over there. It’s much more of a big deal, while here nobody gives a toss. When you play at gigs everything runs so smoothly. Here you always get problems. Like when you travel up north you’re never seen again. All that crap you hear about "friendly" northerners. They hate Londoners. Northerners are so thick . . .’ <br />
<br />
When he’s not slagging off northerners, Steve is producing records for ex-Runaway Joan Jett. <br />
<br />
‘I’ve just done her new single, "You Don’t Own Me", and there’s a chance I might go to the States and do an album with her. It would be great to get away. I hate it here. It’s all so depressing at times.’ <br />
<br />
Maybe a spot of, er, permanent female company might help. <br />
<br />
‘I don’t want to live with a bird yet. I enjoy myself too much.’ <br />
<br />
Fitting enough finale, I s’pose. I think if I’d ever been a rock star, I’d be a bit like Steve Jones. <br />
<br />
And old ladies would love me for my silence. <br />
<br />
(Steve has gone on to perform with such luminaries as Bob Dylan, Megadeth, Iggy Pop and Adam Ant. He lives in LA − as does John Lydon − where he was a radio DJ for a while, and has played at all the Pistols’ comeback shows) <br />
</span><br /></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: A tight Squeeze <br />
</span><br /></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain </span></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span><br /></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.wetdreamsdrylives.com/">www.wetdreamsdrylives.com</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/wetdreamsdrylives">www.facebook.com/wetdreamsdrylives</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-38938397913222005842014-03-14T23:52:00.004+00:002014-03-14T23:55:24.835+00:00<h3>
March 1979 </h3>
<h2>
<br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Giving Head</span> </h2>
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Tim and I decide we should use the Stranglers in Japan story as the main feature of our first syndicated column along with record and concert reviews. We do a mass mail-out to every local paper in the country with a covering letter saying they have permission to use this free of charge, then pay twenty-five pounds for each subsequent weekly column. <br />
<br />
Lots of papers use the column, but only two agree to pay for a regular supply. Tight bastards. The road to riches is closed for extensive works and won’t be opened again for a year. It’s back to the bread-and-butter stuff of phoners and phonies. <br />
<br />
It’s a never-ending story of love, hate and redemption. An orgy of celebrity that demands cynicism. The boy can’t help it and it leaks out during a speed-fuelled meeting with Motorhead in their manager’s London office … <br />
<br />
Well, first of all there’s Lemmy – a couple of protuberances on his face (de rigueur for a heavy metal beast), Quo coiffeur (that’s long, no-nonsense greasy), hirsute top lip (curling Zapata moustache currently fashionable among London taxi drivers), mean look (very effective behind a mike), hairy chest with medallion (the Greek pose) and leather jacket. Bassist. <br />
<br />
Then there’s Phil ‘Philthy Animal’ Taylor – thin eyebrows (sign of a psychopath), narrow, piercing eyes (sign of a psychopath), Sid Vicious barnet (sign of a psychopath), two days’ facial growth (sign of lazy psychopath), not so tall as other members of the band (sign of short psychopath) and leather jacket. Drummer. <br />
<br />
And, of course, there’s Eddie Clarke – er, no painfully obvious physical characteristics (is this man really a member of Motorhead?) and leather jacket. Guitarist. <br />
<br />
These men actually appeared on <i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Top of the Pops</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">And they are probably the most slagged band of our time. Just a few years ago they were voted the Best Worst Band. They’ve been ridiculed, accused of having no musical talent and even disliked a bit too. And because of that they now have a single and an album in the charts. Nobody could accuse them of being insidious. </span></span><br />
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‘We’re resigned to the fact that we’ll never be accepted on a musical level by the critics,’ says Lemmy, lounging on the lino of his manager’s office in West London. ‘All they ever review is our stance. Okay, at the beginning it’s a laugh, but after a while it becomes both boring and annoying.’ <br />
<br />
That attitude has recently escalated with the release of their aptly titled second album </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Overkill</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">. </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Record Mirror</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">’s lithe, libidinous Chris Westwood has just been awarded the coveted Motorhead Intellectual Nerd of the Year Trophy. His album review really got to their dandruff. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘He said I should grow up,’ Lemmy complains. ‘Christ, if I grew any bigger I’d be out of reach! He wasn’t constructive at all. It was just one big bitch. Fancy some speed?’ <br />
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I acquiesce. Hot stuff. In fact, I’m sitting here eating my heart out, baby … <br />
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‘Yet when we met him he was really nice – drinking our drinks, smoking our fags. Maybe we didn’t give him enough.’ <br />
<br />
‘People like that are really beginning to get to me. I seriously think they regard us as three geezers wandering around in leather jackets and gun belts causing mayhem. Well, I regard them as pseudo-intellectuals who lock the world out when they sit behind their little typewriters. I’ve got a really good wall for them to bang their heads against.’ <br />
<br />
So we’re confronted by two opposing Motorhead schools: (1) the pupils who think the traumatic trio are just another bunch of metal gurus; (2) the pupils who like Motorhead quite a lot. <br />
<br />
‘Rock ’n’ roll refused to die and now heavy metal is refusing to die,’ says Lemmy, white speck in a nostril hair, white heat in a brain cell. <br />
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‘I hate that term "heavy metal",’ interrupts Phil. ‘It immediately conjures up visions of heeled boots, Spandex trousers and demented fools.’ <br />
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‘Right,’ says Lemmy. ‘I think we’re more a molten-metal band.’ <br />
<br />
A molten-metal band that was just a solid mass four years ago when Lemmy first formed it after leaving Hawkwind. You remember them − unidentified flying objects in Lurex strides. Motorhead number one recorded an album that was never released. Lemmy drafted in two new musicians – Taylor and Clarke – and they’ve never looked back. <br />
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Mind you, they’ve never looked forward either. <br />
<br />
Their first album sold around 50,000 and a single, ‘Louie Louie’, actually showed in the charts. Grown men were seen to break down and cry when they saw the record at number sixty. And now the new success, which has jettisoned Motorhead into the £45-a-week bracket -- each! <br />
<br />
But things weren’t always rosy. ‘We looked like splitting at one point,’ says Phil. ‘One night, just before a gig, I punched our tour manager on the head and broke my hand. It was over a chick …’ <br />
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Lemmy’s eyes light up. Not sure if it’s a chemical or spiritual reaction. ‘Never take chicks with you on the road -- they’re bad news. Hawkwind were destroyed by chicks.’ <br />
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‘Now we’ve got a good manager and a great lawyer,’ says Lemmy. ‘With a combination like that we’re impregnable. <br />
<br />
‘That’s the thing about punk. They were all such a bunch of kids. If you don’t get yourself organised in this business, people will walk all over you. People had been walking all over us for a long time. What do you do when people hate you? You just keep going. You fight back. You survive. That’s why punk was destroyed – it never fought back. Mind you, heroin also helped it along the path to destruction.’ <br />
<br />
Lemmy and Eddie continue to slag off the use of heroin. <br />
<br />
Lemmy: ‘Smack has killed three musical movements – first acid rock, then pub rock and now punk. Okay, I admit I’m a bit of a speed freak – and I’m afraid I’m influencing the rest of this band – but I’d never touch smack. People who like smack also like Lou Reed and that can’t be anything in its favour.’ <br />
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Eddie: ‘I knew a guy who was into needles so much he once stuck an eye dropper into the veins of his wrist and bled to death in a public toilet.’ <br />
<br />
Lemmy is thirty-three, nurtured on Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, Gene Vincent and those other two tasty trios, Cream and the Jimi Hendrix Experience. He once worked as a roadie for Hendrix. He’s a man who lives very much in that Middle Earth world of Trafalgar Square hippies and kimonos. ‘I play the kind of music that I’d like to go and watch. There ain’t a band in the world that enjoys doing what they do more than us. We’re so happy doing what we’re being.’ <br />
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<br />
(The indomitable Lemmy has ensured that Motorhead – minus Taylor and Clarke − have continued to record and perform to the present day. They have become something of an institution and even picked up a Grammy in 2005 for Best Metal Performance. They released the their 21<span style="font-size: xx-small;">st </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">studio album, Aftershock, in 2013). </span></span></span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Apparently, Lemmy, who I actually think is a pretty groovy guy, isn’t terribly enamoured with the intro to the article (unsurprisingly) and tells a colleague that he’ll beat the shit out of me if ever our paths cross. I thought he’d laugh at what I considered to be an obvious joke but, in the cold light of print, it may not have come across that way. So it’s official − I’ve turned into a cunt. </span></span><br />
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But not where Steve Jones is concerned. He’s always good for a laugh… <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: Nice, quiet, Steve Jones </span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.wetdreamsdrylives.com/">www.wetdreamsdrylives.com</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> <a href="http://www.facebook.com/wetdreamsdrylives">www.facebook.com/wetdreamsdrylives</a> <br />
</span></span>Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-83385348220454572192014-03-09T21:51:00.001+00:002014-03-09T21:52:39.537+00:00<h4>
February 1979 </h4>
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The night I became a proper ochinko <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">The foyer had been full of girls when I returned to the hotel with some of the band and their entourage after touring Tokyo’s hot spots straight after the gig and meeting some real, live Yakuza in a club full of semi-naked women and malt whisky. <br />
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Many of the fans are actually staying at the hotel after booking double rooms months in advance and sneaking in some of their friends to keep costs down without the management’s knowledge. <br />
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We went to the bar where the girls giggled at tables in corners. At around three a.m. we decided to call it a night and strolled to the elevator followed by a bunch of around eight girls, and we all squeezed in together. <br />
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I’d been drinking solidly since 6pm and I was pissed. Really pissed – a gallon of sake, beers, brandy. <br />
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And that’s why, as the elevator stopped at my floor, I shouted, for a laugh and for the first time in my life, ‘Right, who’s coming back to my room, then?’ <br />
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‘Yes, please.’ Softness is a thing called comfort. Her voice sounded miles away. And then, there she was, suddenly, magically, standing next to me in the corridor as the elevator door closed to the sound of applause from the roadies. <br />
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‘Hi.’ <br />
<br />
‘Hi.’ <br />
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‘What’s your name?’ <br />
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‘Haroko.’ <br />
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She wore shiny red boots with high heels, a shiny red mac over a shiny red mini skirt. Her shiny black Stranglers t shirt was as shiny as her shiny black lipstick. <br />
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Her eyes stretched into infinity and beyond, I was pissed. When she smiled my heart skipped a beat, I was pissed. She was gorgeous, I was pissed. <br />
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And now here I am, outside my door, fumbling for the key. I may be pissed but I’m as nervous as hell. What if she thinks I’m Jet Black? (After all, we are the only two people with beards in this travelling show, maybe in this entire country). Do I play along? <br />
<br />
When we get inside I don’t quite know what to do. Does she expect sex or is she just being polite? <br />
<br />
Then she starts to cough. <br />
<br />
Shit, it’s a nasty one. And it’s persistent. And it’s a bit wet. Knowing my luck, the only time this happens to me I get someone with some weird oriental flu for which there’s no known cure for westerners. Why isn’t she wearing a surgical mask like everyone else? <br />
<br />
I convince myself she’s okay. The gallon of sake has distorted my judgement. <br />
<br />
‘Bad cough,’ I say, pointing to my throat, like a fucking jerk. <br />
<br />
‘Sorry. Very sorry.’ <br />
<br />
‘That’s okay.’ I tell her I’m feeling tired and indicate by closing my eyes and resting the side of my face on my clasped hands, like a fucking jerk. I point to the bed and start to undress. Like a fucking jerk. <br />
<br />
‘Would you like to sleep here?’ I ask. Like a fucking jerk. <br />
<br />
‘Yes, please.’ She removes her clothes and we both get into bed, my pants still firmly intact. We kiss. She coughs. We kiss again. She coughs again. I feel like Benny Hill. <br />
<br />
‘Sorry. Very sorry.’ <br />
<br />
‘That’s okay.’ I tentatively touch one of her breasts – and immediately feel a lump. She coughs. No! Japanese flu and fucking cancer? Maybe you get the cancer as a result of contracting the flu. Oh my God! Infectious cancer! You’ve got to be kidding me. <br />
<br />
Then she starts to cough again. I convince myself she’s at death’s door and whatever she’s got, I’ve probably got now. I’ve just signed my own death warrant, and all I did was kiss a Japanese girl in the dark. <br />
<br />
I have to get her out of here. <br />
<br />
‘Are you staying in the hotel?’ <br />
<br />
‘Yes, with some friends.’ <br />
<br />
‘Look, let me take you back to your room. You’ll feel more comfortable.’ <br />
<br />
‘Yes, please.’ <br />
<br />
We both dress and before we leave the room I give her a signed copy of the band’s </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">X-Cert </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">live album. She starts to cry. ‘Thank you so much. Sorry. Very sorry.’ </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">My heart breaks. <br />
<br />
Her friends welcome her, and me, with open arms, and Haroko sniffs, and coughs, as she proudly flashes the signed album and they all go, ‘Oooh!’ <br />
<br />
None of them has a cough. <br />
<br />
I’ll never ask anyone back to my room again, and even think twice about asking myself. <br />
<br />
‘It’s amazing,’’ says the normally diffident Jet Black the following day, on the bullet train to Tokyo. ‘The girls are everywhere. We get off the train and they’re there. We go to the hotel and they’re there. We go to our rooms and they’re waiting outside. Sure, that happens in England – but there it’s not girls, it’s the fucking police!’ <br />
<br />
I know what he means – not the police, the girls. It’s like being an eighteenth century European sailor in the South Seas greeted by a bevy of lei-bearing beauties with Bali Hai’s to die for. <br />
<br />
Jet admits he’d rather think than talk. ‘I leave all that to Jean and Hugh. If I wasn’t an introvert we’d probably be fighting all the time. I’m in the classic drummer mould. When bands try putting the drummer up as a front man they fail.’ <br />
<br />
Dave Clark Five, Genesis, 10cc? <br />
<br />
‘The only thing that gets me annoyed is incompetence when we tour. I’ve come across people who can’t organise a bunk-up in a brothel.’ <br />
<br />
About the disparity. ‘We have all the ingredients for failure. But the pressures, all that we’ve gone through, have given us a mutual respect for each other. We’re all very strong individuals. That’s why we’ve got so much more to offer than anyone else. <br />
<br />
‘We’ve been managing ourselves for the last six months, although things on that front are improving. I tell you something – show me a good manager and I’ll show you a Martian.’ <br />
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<br />
It’s raining in Tokyo. The coruscating skyscrapers are wet yet still they gleam, still the cars are meticulously polished, still there are no stains on the pavements, still the women out walking their dogs bend down to sweep the steaming damp turds into polythene bags to deposit in nearby litter bins, still the victims of flu wander around in surgical masks to prevent spreading their kamikaze germs. <br />
<br />
Tokyo is straight out of <em>The Shape of Things to Come<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></em><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">. It’s more advanced and consequently more civilised than London or New York or any other major city on earth.</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Wells envisaged the vertical aspects perfectly. He just didn’t latch onto the horizontal aspects of the inhabitants. </span></span><br />
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<br />
The magnificent metropolis of the east is dripping and glistening in the glare of a billion neon lights while the Stranglers prepare for the show. They’re pretty pissed when they find out it’s an all-seater tonight at the Korakuen Hall. <br />
<br />
‘You two keep playing,’ Jean says to Jet and Dave in the dressing room, like someone planning to break out of Colditz, ‘while Hugh and I jump into the audience and start wrenching up the fucking chairs. If that doesn’t get them going, nothing will.’ <br />
<br />
They did. And they did. Result – the most immaculate Stranglers’ show this side of the Nashville. <br />
<br />
When you see them perform it live, you realise just how underrated </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Black and White </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">is. </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">No More Heroes </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">was merely a stepping-stone, a transition between the singalongastranglers of Rattus and the psychopathic delusions that course through the veins of </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">B&W</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">. There’s death and night and blood in Toytown tonight. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">In the band’s dressing room after the gig I start talking to the very glamorous Kato, who insists she’s not a groupie. She’s bright and sassy and twenty-one with a bullet and no bra. She taught me <em>oppai <span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></em><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">(tits), </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">shakuhachi </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">(blow-job), </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">senzuri </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">(wank), </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">omeko </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">(‘girl’s one’), </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">ochinko </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">(‘boy’s one’) and </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">omekoshiyo </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">(fuck). That’s all you really need to know to get by in any language. </span></span> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘Before they came, Japanese girls thought the Stranglers would rape them,’ she tells me. ‘See, English bands often make fun of Japanese girls, but this band seem more friendly than most. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
<br />
‘Also, in general, English men have bigger <em>ochinko<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></em><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">s than Japanese men. It frightens the girls, y’know. They had to make a slightly smaller condom especially for the Japanese market. </span></span> </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘There’s no doubt we are hampered by our lack of English. Usually the only thing a Japanese girl can say to a guy in a band is, "Can I come to your room?" That doesn’t give you much of a start! And the girls then get very sad because they know the guy will leave shortly, Barry.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">When you get right down to it, rock stars are just singing sailors. It’s all in the game and many a tear has to fall. <br />
<br />
I love hearing Kato pronounce my name -- not only is it sexier than a French accent, it also makes me feel kinda important. Kinda big and crisp and tall. <br />
<br />
I find Haroko sitting outside my hotel-room door when I get back from the gig. She’s followed me to Tokyo. I can’t believe it. <br />
<br />
Then I start to worry that she’s some kind of mad stalker. That she’ll stab me repeatedly, mercilessly and tomorrow in the Tokyo Daily Bugle under the headline <br />
<br />
‘Coughing Killer Strikes Again’, they’ll report that Jet Black was found stabbed to death in his hotel room. <br />
<br />
Fate has decreed that Dina is my last, my everything. <br />
<br />
So I tell Haroko she can keep a-knockin, but she can’t come in. <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: Motorhead bite back <br />
</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain </span></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY">http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00H0IM2CY</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-28820181232567490292014-03-08T00:10:00.001+00:002014-03-08T00:15:34.315+00:00<h3>
February 1979 <br />
</h3>
<h2>
Outside Tokyo</h2>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">So the self-styled Queen of Pop, Nina Myskow, and I board a plane for Tokyo. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
<br />
She’s in first, I’m in economy. She works for the <i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Sun</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">, I work for myself. She wears red, I wear black. She’s a sweetheart and so am I. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">The same can’t be said of the Stranglers … <br />
<br />
And I tell you what – it’s definitely not true what they say about Japanese girls <br />
<br />
Unless, of course, you happen to be cross-eyed. <br />
<br />
So tell me more . . . They wait, these Nipponese nymphs, on bullet train stations, in airports, in hotel lounges, in the shadows of afternoon corridors, in vain, in rain, armed with heart-shaped chocolates, flowers, love letters, sugar-sweet smiles, bird-wing eyes, all things feminine, for… the Stranglers. It could’ve been any other band, any other full-cream hard-ons in Brylcreemed trousers, any other bunch of matinée idols with false bollocks and painted smiles. <br />
<br />
But the Stranglers? <br />
<br />
As the band alight from the bullet train onto the platform at Osaka station, they’re immediately surrounded by a mob of girls, all manicured giggles and stiletto-heeled admiration, looking as incongruous as dogs on hot tin roofs. <br />
<br />
‘They don’t think of us as idols,’ says Jean in the cab on the way to the hotel where another gang of honeydew peaches is waiting to pounce. ‘They’re really into what the band says. They understand.’ <br />
<br />
To back up his statement he flashes some letters written in over-formal, shaky English. They’d been thrust into his hand at various points of his journey across Japan by girls anxious to identify with his admiration of the writer Yukio Mishima and to provide a few enlightening anecdotes on the subject of his decapitation after committing suicide or seppuku (sounds like a word game) <br />
<br />
Not exactly love letters in the sand. Japanese girls are like that. <br />
<br />
Osaka is around two hundred miles from Tokyo. It’s like a brass rubbing of Birmingham but more curvaceous and sparkly. It’s the second concert into The Stranglers’ Japanese tour. The previous night in Fukuoka – many Japanese words sound vaguely obscene − they apparently went down so well they were banned from ever playing there ever again due to audience overreaction.<br /><br />Tonight the barriers again didn’t prevent the fans tumbling down to the front in desperation to celebrate the appearance of sour-faced Jet, doe-eyed Dave, lecher Hugh and jumping Jacques flash. <br />
<br />
After years of heavy-metal conditioning in the shape of clapped-out, podgy, monolithic dross kings from far beyond the seas, it’s not surprising they find the Stranglers something to write home about. These normally placid, peek-a-boo people from the valley of the dolls are even starting to spit! What other race would go berserk for an hour, kick stewards in the bollocks, mob the band and then politely bow to each other afterwards as they file out of the hall? <br />
<br />
I expected order. I expected rules. I expected the Stranglers to be regarded as a novelty act whose only redeeming factor was Jean’s romantic attachment to their country and his cutie-pie smile. But with kind of indomitable elegance, the fans accept the moribund meat the band relish chewing before their very eyes. <br />
<br />
They seem to get it. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Back in the Osaka hotel basement bar, Jean intimates, in no uncertain terms but with a snappy smile, that he wants a fight. And he wants a fight with Judas Priest, who’d just played a concert of their own and sit like Madame Tussaud rejects in the corner being ogled by a dozen leopard-skinned groupies. <br />
<br />
Jean scrawls, ‘Judas Priest R Fucking Women.’ on the back of a menu and places it on a silver platter held by an unsuspecting waiter who proceeds to deliver the message to the Birmingham metalheads. <br />
<br />
No takers. <br />
<br />
Jean departs, disappointed but still smiling. Judas Priest may not have even heard of the Stranglers. <br />
<br />
The evening culminates in manager Ian Grant insulting a concrete-arsed groupie, tour manager Tom playing tunes loudly on a silver tray and Ian banging nails into the ceiling. <br />
<br />
None of the band participate in such on-the-road antics. They’re parsimonious with their off-stage energy. Apart from Jean’s occasional muscle flexing (he does tend to tread on your toes a great deal: I put that down to him being French an’ all), they’re more inclined to exercise the larynx than the inebriated soul. <br />
<br />
I guess that’s part of their attraction. <br />
<br />
The following day we coach it to Kyoto, the ancient capital awash with Buddhist temples all made entirely of wood and without the merest hint of a nail. Despite the overbearing symbolism that pervades the ornamental parks in which these wonderful edifices are set, it’s difficult not to snigger when confronted by ‘Get your souvenir Buddhas here’ signs.<br /><br />
The band pose for the Sun’s Queen of Pop outside one temple. Nina’s probably still feeling a little freaked out after seeing Jean’s balls swinging like church bells in the dressing room the night before when he emerged stark naked from the shower. Still, he didn’t seem to mind. <br />
<br />
The venue tonight is Kyoto University. There’s holes in the ceiling, holes in the walls, holes in the hearts, holes in the holes. This black hole of Kyoto is tailor made for the band. No police are allowed on the campus. No chairs are allowed in the main hall. No holds barred. <br />
<br />
But without the barriers and red-jacketed stewards, the element of anarchy is dispelled. Unfortunately it becomes just another gig – unusual in Japan, maybe, but I’ve seen more exciting nights at the Palladium. <br />
<br />
‘No, I don’t mind Jean getting all the attention at the moment. After all, he makes a prettier cover than me.’ Hugh, wearing the tongue-in-cheek sincere look he cultivates so well, pours another beer in his hotel room at the Nagoya Miyako Grand the next day. Initially, he was the Strangler who grabbed the attention but in recent months he’s taken a back seat‘Last year I got pissed off with being pushed into situations. We’ve had a very depressing time on the business side but things are looking up. I haven’t got time for the pain.’ <br />
<br />
There’s a knock on the door and the tour manager wanders in with a leather-jacketed boy who looks around eighteen and a slightly older girl. ‘You said you wanted to talk to some fans,’ he says to me. ‘Here’s one.’ Hugh leaves us to it. <br />
<br />
Aya is a student and has saved up for months just to accompany the band on every gig and he’s taken a week off work to do this. Why? <br />
<br />
‘Because the Stranglers are unique,’ he says. ‘They sing about all our lives and I understand and identify with what they think. Other rock bands sing about love between men and women, they sing about the government. People are afraid to sing about the government, but they’re not.’ <br />
<br />
Ayako Shimizo is twenty-three, works for a bank and lives in the dormitory her company provides for its employees. She has a record player in her room, a boyfriend in LA and a thing about Jean. Or she did have. <br />
<br />
‘He was my favourite. I liked his playing. I liked his philosophy. I think he is very strong and very manly. More manly than Japanese men. But I was disappointed when a friend told me he had gone to bed with a Japanese girl while he was here, I was surprised. I didn’t think he would be just another rock star.’ <br />
<br />
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<br />
She leaves. Hugh returns and I mention the conversation. <br />
<br />
‘She’s just like anybody else,’ he says ‘She can’t cope with reality. She hasn’t sussed out yet that there are no more heroes. You’d have thought the Zen way would have taught them to think otherwise.’ <br />
<br />
Nagoya lies sixty-seven miles outside Kyoto and is the fourth most populous city in the country. It’s a little like Osaka but with a shade more character. <br />
<br />
Before going to the sound-check, I corner Jean and tell him what Ayako had said. He’s obviously upset. ‘It’s frustrating. What her friend told her just isn’t true.’ <br />
<br />
This is becoming a soap opera. <br />
<br />
What her friend told her just isn’t true. No. We don’t behave like rock bands with their idiotic on the road antics. I don’t want this band to be like any other. The Stranglers are all I’ve got. No. Shit, man, that’s a drag. I didn’t expect to hear something like that, something so palpably untrue.’ <br />
<br />
I mention the conversation I had with Hugh as he puts his Dr Martens on. <br />
<br />
‘At the beginning I felt Hugh had a lot more going for him than me. He’s got a regular place to live. He can concentrate on higher things. I’ve never had security, just the Stranglers.’ <br />
<br />
The show in Nagoya is a triumph. The stewards, up until now fairly tame by Japanese standards, are coming on strong. So strong, in fact, that the band stop playing to point an accusing finger at one particularly venomous steward who is subsequently hounded out of the hall in a blaze of vitriol. <br />
<br />
Backstage I meet up with Marl Takahashi, a bespectacled twenty-year-old, and the president of the Japanese Stranglers’ Information Service. She, too, has been travelling with the band for the duration of the tour. <br />
<br />
‘At the moment there are seventy members,’ she says, ‘but I expect that to really increase after all this. The average age is eighteen but we have a few thirty-two-year-olds. We also have a fanzine. <br />
<br />
‘For me The Stranglers are so different from other bands. They have opinions and they point out all the wrong things in England. Other bands just sing and wear pretty clothes and I’m tired of all that. I know the band look so wild, but after meeting them I know they are gentle. But all the girls that come to the hotel don’t understand them. They just want to go to bed with them. I don’t. I just want to be their friend. If I went to bed with Jean I wouldn’t be his friend anymore.’ <br />
<br />
Why do I get the feeling that I’m turning into a News Of The World reporter? <br />
<br />
And you thought The Stranglers were a boys’ band. <br />
<br />
I’ve been going out with Dina pretty solidly for nearly two and a half years. I love her madly but I know she’s unsure about me, about the kind of job I do, about the way I live my life. She could hardly be described as a rock chick. She hates receptions, doesn’t matter how glitzy, she doesn’t care much for most of the music and she definitely never bothers with people she hates. It’s part of the attraction. <br />
<br />
Despite the obvious temptations, I never fool around at home or away. I sussed out a while back that sex without love was intensely unsatisfactory and not worth the hassle. Hey, but if you’re a rock star it’s part of the nine to five. <br />
<br />
I love Dina and want her so much to be my bride. It’s the most important thing in my life: why fuck it up? <br />
<br />
So what am I doing walking down this endless corridor to my room at the Nagoya Miyako Grand holding the hand of a girl called Haroko with oriental sex on my mind…? <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: The Stranglers in Japan Part 2 </span></b><br />
<b><br /></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain </span></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives: </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />Flexifriendhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05492011030544379808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089373711110895166.post-28993423685193136302014-02-26T21:52:00.000+00:002014-02-26T22:00:17.457+00:00<h2>
February 1979 <br />
</h2>
<h2>
Murder most foul<br /><br />During the late night interview with UFO’s Phil Mogg, I discover I saw a friend of Phil’s being murdered in Manor House when I was fifteen . . . </h2>
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span> </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW25OYlCiyUfD6w2lOXhfYyXZCsYJ4knkXCpxnBLyPUy7DBgKBZ2e3vr0wih3PqsplxeLc3cgGsje0gsoqlGFhvGkyLshTb2fLzMXTaVvIGgwnu4I_3OLhBScxo4OvTlvGpDh6OXWS_GPl/s1600/otis-redding1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW25OYlCiyUfD6w2lOXhfYyXZCsYJ4knkXCpxnBLyPUy7DBgKBZ2e3vr0wih3PqsplxeLc3cgGsje0gsoqlGFhvGkyLshTb2fLzMXTaVvIGgwnu4I_3OLhBScxo4OvTlvGpDh6OXWS_GPl/s1600/otis-redding1.jpg" height="309" width="320" /></a></div>
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</i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">My own personal song of death and kisses is ‘Try A Little Tenderness’ by Otis. <br />
<br />
It’s the one I remember most from that hot summer Saturday night in 1968 when I was fifteen and women were goddesses. There was a schizophrenic club above the Manor House pub at the junction of Green Lanes and Seven Sisters Road. On Friday it was called the Bluesville and showcased some of the hottest blues-rock bands in town, like John Mayall, Chicken Shack and, best of all, Ten Years After. The punters were hippies and local dudes like me, who loved a fast guitar and a puckered lip. I always wore jeans and a T-shirt and succumbed to the slick chords and heavy-duty four-play. <br />
<br />
On Saturday nights the Bluesville slapped on a suit and tie and became the Downbeat, a juicy soul-searcher packed out with skins in mohair and girls you could occasionally dance with when you got a little pissed and Brenton Wood was waiting for the sign. There were also a lot of black guys there who also occasionally hit the Royal dancehall in Tottenham on a Thursday like drugstore truck driving men and sometimes met the wound-up, woolly-bully white boys head on. Black guys never got drunk. They didn't need booze to fuel their domain. They took the women and song away from the wine – it was their secret. Oh, and the fact that most of them could dance the hind legs off Nureyev. <br />
<br />
The Downbeat was a place for a fifteen-year-old boy to grow up, and that night I shot up like fucking Godzilla. <br />
<br />
There were three of us. Terry was a sixteen-year-old printing apprentice. Being a printer – especially on Fleet Street – in 1968 was a licence to print money and some of them even found time to do the knowledge and become black-cab drivers. Ray was twenty, the son of the caretaker on our estate. He worked for Robert Dyas and was handy for getting the drinks in. <br />
<br />
These were the light-and-bitter days at two bob a throw. I had an after-school job cleaning a nearby office block every night. I was flush. My semi-hippie Friday clobber was replaced by the bespoke blue mohair three piece my Dad had bought me. Terry wore a pale green mohair suit and Ray, not a fashion god by any stretch of the imagination, had the suit he wore to work. <br />
<br />
After several pints we headed out on the highway to the dance-floor. It was the third time I’d been to the Downbeat on a Saturday night and I’d never danced with anyone. None of us had. We’d stand on the edge of the floor and look at the girls and dream. <br />
<br />
But tonight I was determined to walk out of my dreams and into my heart and as ‘Hold On I’m Coming’ segued gently into Otis Redding’s ‘Try A Little Tenderness’ I took my chance. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">I entered the void... <br />
</span></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Oh, she may be weary... <br />
</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Would you like to dance? <br />
<br />
‘Okay.’ <br />
</span></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Them young girls do get wearied . . . <br />
</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">What’s your name? <br />
<br />
‘Mary.’ <br />
</span></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Wearing the same shabby dress . . . <br />
</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">I’ve got an aunt called Mary. <br />
<br />
‘What’s your name?’ <br />
<br />
Barry. <br />
</span></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">And when she gets wearied . . .</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">‘I’ve got a boyfriend called Barry.’ </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
<br />
Oh. <br />
<br />
‘Only joking. How old are you?’ <br />
<br />
Eighteen. </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">All you’ve got to do is try a little tenderness . . . </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">We suddenly kissed. It was my very first and when her tongue searched for mine I nearly fainted. That was the moment I realised I was tongue-tied: the membrane that attached my tongue to my mouth was at the front instead of the back and although I could welcome visitors I couldn’t make any house calls. I kept falling at the first, my bottom teeth. </span></span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">I know she’s waiting, just anticipating . . . </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">In the end she gave up. </span></span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">The thing that you’ll never, never, possess, no, no, no . . . </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Three months later I had the unwanted flesh snipped during a five-day stay at the Royal Free Hospital. I assumed Mary was the only girl to have a slut tongue and I adored her for it. I thought of marriage and kids and a little house on the prairie before realising I was fifteen and in blue. I never saw her again. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
<br />
As Terry, Ray and I walked out at closing time, down the long, wide flight of stairs that led from the club onto the Seven Sisters Road, I noticed that on either side of each step was a line of white dudes in suits – members of a notorious local mob – each one brandishing a <br />
cutthroat razor, each one checking the punters, each one desirous of seeing twisted flesh and internal organs made external on these stairs with stares. I was shitting myself. <br />
<br />
When I reached the bottom with my bollocks still intact, I asked a guy what was going on. He said it involved strangers and women. Don’t they all? Someone asked a girl he shouldn’t have to dance. When she refused he got stroppy. It was time to die. <br />
<br />
‘Who’s the guy?’ I asked. ‘No fucking idea.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s with a couple of mates. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes for all the money in the world.’ I looked back up the stairs at the gamut of flashing blades and I knew what he meant. Suddenly, a guy came hurtling down the stairs and ran out of the door pursued by an army of razors. He managed to jump on the luckiest bus in the world as it sped past down the Seven Sisters Road into infinity. The number 38 saved his life that night. <br />
<br />
The boys from the black stuff returned, disconsolately, to the club and waited like clay pigeon shooters for the next target. Sure enough, another guy − the one Phil Mogg knew − came bounding down the stairs. Alas, there was no bus, just a warm breeze and a heartful of soul. <br />
<br />
He turned right. Wrong move. He turned right again into a quiet residential street. Really wrong move. About twenty or thirty guys were on his tail. Terry, Ray and I stayed outside the club. I was curious -- it was the latent journo in me. A few minutes later most of the guys strolled back to the club. They looked elated. Their work here was done. <br />
<br />
The three of us decided to go and see what had happened. The guy was lying face-up in the gutter. A small crowd began to form and an ambulance pulled up. We stood just a few feet away and he didn’t look too bad. I said to Ray he’d had a result as two ambulance men lifted the guy onto a stretcher. Splashes from the impact of his brains spilling out of the back of his head and plopping onto the pavement danced on my blue mohair turn-ups, and Terry fainted. I’d never seen someone so dead. From that moment on, I knew it was unwise to argue with strange guys in sharp suits with lipstick on their collars, especially on a Saturday night. A few years later Diana Dors took over the club but I never went again. <br />
<br />
Couldn’t get the splashes out. <br />
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Next: The Stranglers in Japan <br />
</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Adapted from the book Tell Me When by Barry Cain </span></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Barry Cain 2013 </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">
</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">Check out Barry’s new novel, Wet Dreams Dry Lives: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Arial; font-size: small;">
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